Читать книгу The Pit - Tara Borin - Страница 8

Found rattling about in the kitchen drawer of a rented house, the handle worn where folded fingers grip, engraved Maprosa darkened with tarnish. I take it for my own, take it to my Friday night shift. Bustling up and down the length of the bar I pop the tops off bottles lined up in a row then turn to mix a rye and ginger all with the key tucked neatly in my hand: my secret to speed. Between beers I turn it over and over, the flat of it gently slapping my palm. I am never without it. I wonder what epiphanies it unlocked before me. It opens the door to relief, sanctuary from the daily assault. Sanctuary from lonely social housing apartments. Sanctuary from the past that haunts you, the things you can’t control, the things done to you and done to you. I’ll guide you through the darkness into the amber light, to a congregation of familiars. My church key always fits, snicks inside whatever lock you’re bound by—it will always let you in.