Entrances (Sugar 4)

I can get in any of those doors. Don’t look at me like that, I’m not a criminal. And no, I won’t tell you how.

You’re missing the point. I want to tell you about entrances. You open a door, shut a door, and you’re inside. That matters, don’t you think? I can only get through the first doors, the ones you need a card for rather than a key. And I think what I’m saying is that, even when you’ve opened and stepped through and closed those doors behind you, you’re not really inside. You’re in this kind of no-man’s land, with all these other doors leading off it.

There are the letter boxes, first off, tiny locked doors with numbers on them. Some of them are broken open. Some of them spill out paper, and you wonder does no one live in the flat that matches the box? Maybe they’re dead, or on holiday, and you hope that there is someone who knows which it is.

The number of boxes tells you how many doors there are which you can’t get into. The higher the number, the longer the walk. If you’re supposed to be there, then one of the doors will be yours, and once you’ve open and stepped through and closed that door, then you’re inside, then you’re home. If you’re like me, or the postman, or someone else without a key to go with the card, then there are just corridors and doors, lifts you can see your reflection in, and concrete stairs.

They are the kind of places where anything could happen. You might meet the person whose music seeps through your walls or ceiling or floor, and they might end up being the best friend you’ve ever had. You might open your post box and find a letter that’s the start of a whole new story. You might fall in love. You might decide that today is the day you’re going to change.