my adaptation of Margaret

The door always stuck, and you had to know how to finesse it just right to open it slowly and quietly, and it made getting in and out very easy if you had that right touch to it. You never pulled right away, and you never pulled at the door before twisting the knob fully all the way to the left. If you did twist the door knob all the way to the left, and then you pulled at the door, it stuck anyways. It always stuck. You had to push it in and down to pull it back, it was a relationship with the door, one that you had to be understanding with, soft and wooden, but quick and rough. It always stuck if you did not feel against your breath the cracks that ran down from the top to the bottom of the door, and the chipped edge where the water had swollen the door. They've always had a way of fucking up the door. Opening it too quick, opening it too slowly. I had the door swooning like a baby, the way I had come to understand that wooden door that always stuck. And when it stuck it made an extremely deep, loud sound that felt like a crash, or a jab. You could hear it from outside the house. You always knew when the door stuck. But they always took to the door like they understood it. Like it was any other door. But when they did take to the door, they never cared to take their time, they needed to make a statement.

You're a fucking asshole. I'm sorry.Fuck your apology, I'm leaving. Don't pull on the door Isabella. It always stuck.