The turquoise door marks the spot. It’s arch shape, a warning to all who enter things aren’t square here. It beckons for attention. A smarter man would see that first. The red shrub announces life is fleeting.
I sit across the street. The car runs for some unknown reason. I can’t consciously put it into park, or shut it off for that manner. It’s all too strange.
A week ago, I lived here. I found myself living here, better yet. But now, I don’t. My key doesn’t fit. Her furniture is gone. I’m homeless.
A why would help. My stuff would be nice. But I sit wondering. What is to become of me now.
Written as part of a challenge called Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers,