The room illuminates & I squint across to the answering machine for the indicator flashing new messages. It always looks like it's flashing at first, whether there is any or not. I usually can't tell for sure until I get over there but for now I'm still barely inside. I enter & close the door behind me, feeling the satisfying woosh of air as it seals air tight. At least one thing in this house is weatherproof.
I want to sit down, to lie down. I've just come from an enthusiastic work-out & am already paying for it. Thighs burn & complain whenever I move my legs. I want to collapse but I'm still wearing layers of clothing from the sub-freezing weather outside. So first the leather gloves drop to the floor next to the air vent. They'll stay there until the next time I leave the house. I unzip my heavy leather motorcycle jacket & toss it to the center of the living room. It's dry & can stay there until it can be hung up properly. The hooded sweatshirt comes off too & goes on the chair near the door. I don't know why not the floor with the jacket since they'll be hung up in the same place, it just goes there. Then with the added range of movement (I can bend over) the laces are undone from my steel-toed work boots & slip off one next to the other by way of practiced heel-toe action. So well practiced that I don't even get my socks wet from residual snow in the treads or on the rug.
Thusly divested of winter layering, I am freed to proceed forthwith out of the doorway to hang up wet clothes to dry, dry clothes to hang & find a place to rest my overworked muscles.
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