"Describe the doorway to the room."
Two big brown windowpane doors loom open, gaping wide as if to swallow those who get too close. They are dark, either oak or mahogany or some sort of wood that I'm not familiar with. There is an inset of wood trim around each tall window pane in the gaping doors. The trim is the exact same decoration that was on the coffee table that claimed the life of my lower lip when I was four. Pretending to be Casper with an opaque blanket is never a good idea, tables get in the way and lips get critically injured. They sewed it back on. A miracle of medicine and a faint scar shows through as a reminder.
Above the doors hang a glorious brass chandelier. At one point, the maintenance man of the building changed all the flame-tipped bulbs to energy-saving halogen ones. The result was a glorious brass chandelier of glowing dildos.
The doors are hinged on opposite sides with a sliding lock at the top. Every morning I have to hop on tiptoes to attempt to unlock these gates of hell. Every morning, people taller than my 5'5" self walk past me and pretend not to notice my ass jiggling with every labored bounce. I finally give up and loop my $500 purse handle around the lock and pull down while simultaneously trying to think of a way to sue my office if my beautiful purse should break.
Beyond the doors is a small entry hall. The walls on either side have generic pictures of horses hung on them. If I would have found these equestrianish pieces of art at a yard sale for $1 each - I would have been aghast. They're not worth more than a nickel. For both.
Beyond the gaping doors of hell, and the penis light and the pictures of fake horses is where my favorite part of the room lies: the elevator. It's my hope, my savior and my grace - I know that, at 5pm, those dirty cream doors will slide open and rescue me from the monotony of the day and the monotony of life. Finally, it will be my choice, "Going down."
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