Irah Thurber

A Story of Impelled Ambitions

Her sneakers are soft on the wooden floor. She's made this walk a thousand times over, and today feels no different. She avoids the spots of sun that reach from the windows to the floor, not letting her stride penetrate their rays. The walk to the spruce wood door isn’t far, only just down the hall of other doors just like it. She always worries that she'll enter the wrong room, but this has yet to happen. The person on the other side of the door waits patiently, and barely looks up when she presses her fingers tenderly against the surface and pushes the dark planks open. She makes her way over to the blue bean bag chair that sits lonesome in the corner below two windows. She wonders sometimes if she's the only one who sits in it, as it always seems to be in the same position as how she left it. Once seated, each time, her eyes glance around the room for changes. Sometimes it's the plant, its leaves brighter or duller, straighter or droopier. Other times it's the order of the folders on the shelf, one red to the left now on the right, misplaced. Sometimes it's the rug, offset to the table in a new direction, but it's always off set. Perhaps someday it'll be on set. She does this not to be observative, but instead to avoid speaking first. She knows each day she comes is a new opportunity for her to break this habit, but today was not that day. Perhaps next thursday, at 3pm on 457 North Moscarin Ave, second floor, 4th door on the left after the lobby.