Bruce

"It doesn't have to be like this," he said as he gave her back the key.
She cocked her head a bit; her black-rimmed glasses had begun to fog
and she crossed her arms.
"You're a writer, and that's
the best you can come up with?"
She slammed the door on him.
After he put the wreath back,
his hand rested on the door,
just opposite her hand. Until
he heard the deadbolt turn home
and the floor squeak on the other side.