Inching toward the red doors

 

 

With one glance at the oversized house, I knew it wasn’t the right address. I flashed him a cold smile. “That remains to be seen.”

“Everybody knows it’s The Boarding House. Just what you asked for. Owner’s a nice lady, too.” He smirked. “Well, I’ll be off then.” He set the luggage down, shuffled his feet, and glared at me. When I stared back, he turned with a mischievous grin. Then, the loose soles of his shoes flapped as he cull-umped away.

I neared the front door and stopped to read the sign. Madam Fannie Porter’s Boarding House. The term “madam” did not escape me. Nor did the sparsely dressed and licentious female “boarders” I spotted through the slightly parted curtains.

I sat on the curb, too tired to cry.

A thick raindrop thumped my hat; the second thudded my skirt. A lightning bolt forced me to stand.

I glanced back at the grand house of ill fame, swallowed the Bitter taste of doubt, and inched toward the red doors.

Excerpt from:

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