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She closed the book, placed it on the table, and finally, decided to walk through the door. She also decided not to walk through the door. She decided to sit down. She decided to stand. She decided all these things and a dozen others, all equally contradictory, and all retracted long before her body could turn any thought into action. To meet them boldly, or wait here to be discovered? Should she fiercely demand or coolly assume entitlement?

The book discarded, she looked around for another prop. The speed of the images increased then, even as they became more absurd. She was standing on the sofa; she was waving them off with a standing lamp, bulb still ablaze. Then she was quietly pouring something over ice at the cabinet, hopefully scotch. She emitted a puff of air that might have been a laugh as she looked up at the chandelier.

Finally her eyes fell on the tiniest thing in the room. There, on the shelf, forgotten for years, was a tiny figurine, a goat. It was dusty when she picked it up. A piece of lint had balled itself on the goat’s tiny beard. She wrapped her hand around it and felt real relief.

She heard footsteps on the tile. The goat was thrust into her pocket. She grasped the door knob, turned, and pulled.

“Hello,” she said, and began waiting, again, to see what she might do next.