The door that won't lock

The guard read my paper twice and let me through. The fixer arrived second and had to wait at the gate for the builder's own arrival. I saw it from the rearview mirror while Suresh was looking for a parking spot. My face did nothing. Inside I was a child at a school assembly being called up first. Petty. Ugly. Admitting it.

Heena texted while I was still in the driveway, clause warm in my hand. Someone inside the rehearsal-studio circle forwarded her BKC referral to the fixer's new SIM. I have been turning the names over like river stones. I am not ready to name the one I suspect, because if I'm wrong I have to apologize and if I'm right I have to do something, and I am tired tonight. The marigold dupatta is still on top of the tote, packed as a flag. Tomorrow I might wear it on purpose just to feel my own small refusal in the mirror again.

I walked the back corridor alone at five, trying the door lock the way the builder said — from outside. Same click as every other door on the wing. From this side it locks. From mine it does not. I pressed my forehead to the wood for three breaths. The corridor smelled like mothballs and old paint and someone else's cooking. I thought about calling my mum. I didn't. I'd have had to explain the welts and I didn't want to hear her voice go thin.

The yellow one at my elbow is fading. The newer one, lower, under the sleeve, is fresh. When I changed for dinner I pressed the edge with two fingers. Same small pop of nothing give. I am writing this down so I don't decide later that I imagined it.