Habit; 23

He unlocks the apartment door. Shoes off, placed neatly beside the coat rack. Bag—it's too small—down, placed next to the couch. He returns to the door, shuts it. I hear the lock grating as the internal mechanism fastens itself.

I could enter any number of ways. I choose to knock. I know that he'll know it's me, and he does, and he unlatches—scraping metal bits on the inside—the door, and if I didn't know better, I'd say he was on the verge of collapse.

And I can't help but smirk as he steps aside quite politely.