He shifted his weight from one foot to another as he rang the bell. He questioned himself as to why he was standing in front of this door again. Yet again. While waiting for the door to be opened, he surveyed his clothes. Yes, the tear in his t-shirt was hardly visible. Yes, the ink he'd dropped on his trousers was now dulled by the dirt and grime. Yes, how old his shoes were could very well be passed off with a whine about the dust on the city's roads. Yes, he said to himself as he wiped his eyes just in time. She opened the door.

As he walked in, he handed her a fresh set of white flowers he'd picked off a plant on his way. They spoke of the weather outside but not a word was uttered about the weather inside his mind. Was a storm brewing? Had the rain stopped? Would the sun ever shine like it used to? He shook off the questions lest she saw. Yet she saw that his eyes were full of questions, that his t-shirt had a tear for it was the only thing he had to wear, that his shoes resembled a mouth open, and that his trousers had not been cleaned barring the sudden afternoon showers.

Small talk has an expiry period as though it were a medicine. Soon it was time to leave. He wished he could stay longer. "Not that hungry" he said in the hopes that she might insist to cook him something warm, maybe an egg, maybe coffee in a keg. But life has its ways, people have their days, and his days were probably over. He left saying his son had been repeatedly asking him to join in their friday dinner.

As he walked down the steps, the flat numbers began to stare back at him. Where would he go next? He collected his bag from the security and made another friendly call but cellphones can shut the world out and then, who was he in the world to anyone? A worthless son? A repenting husband? An unwanted father? A guilty man? A nobody? An outsider? Open the door to accept an outsider, would you?