"Here is a key," she said, "And I do hope . . . I do hope you are happy."
Blue, grey, brown, green eyes surveyed her with disinterst, taking now a gold key, a silver, copper, or bronze. And one day, the chest that was full was empty, and the heart that had hoped did not care. It was used to idle visitors knocking on the door, rummaging through the crimson chest, and walking with their flawless, shining key. There were none left now, and she felt she could finally be content, if not happy. It had ended. She was surprised to feel a twinge of regret at that thought.
Days passed, and then weeks, and she finally learned to stop looking at the door. She amused herself through the hours playing chess with Shay, and when she had nothing else to do, swepping her white tile floor. It took little effort; it was always spotless. On Mondays she cooked dinner for the neighbors and went to bed late.
It was on Sunday, though, when she had just started her breakfast, that the knock came.
She dropped her fork. Sitting there white-faced, she waited anxiously to hear if the person would knock again. He did. It's the wrong house,she thought. You've come to the wrong house. But she said nothing, and when the knock came once more, she stood, pushed in her hchair, and walked to the door. She lifted her hand to the knob . . . and pulled it back, straightening a few strands of graying auburn hair. Then she opened the door.
"Hello," the man said. He was of average height, and his hair, she noticed right away, was a dull and mousy brown. He glanced around the room, and the way his brown eyes darted from her face to the floor amused her.
"Hello," she replied. "Come in? I'm having tea, if you want some."
"Tea?" the man asked. "That seems awfully quaint, don't you think?" Then he reddened. "But, I always drink tea on Sundays. It's good for your health. What's your name?"