That Orange Gate

Every time I pass that door I wonder why they’re trying so hard to keep me from going in there.

It’s the last door in the airport that I’d enter voluntarily.

I mean, have you seen it? It’s all scratched up, and it’s off its hinges, and dear god the smell. It’s like a musty basement and moth balls and burned rubber. All of those smells. Less than inviting, for sure.

I’m just saying that the sign would be enough. It would be more than enough. I would never, ever go in there if they’d just put that sign up.

But they didn’t just put the sign up. They put that gate up, too.

So now there’s this gate and it’s the brightest awfulest orange color, and I can’t help but stare at it every time I walk by. It’s just screaming at me. It is begging me to stare at it, and so I do, and then my mind starts to wander and I have to ask myself why they want so badly to keep me out. Sometimes I ask the gate, even, but it’s a gate and it doesn’t speak, obviously. 

I just know it’s something really good or really bad. Like, it might be a super-secret employee lounge? With an espresso machine and a leather sofa? Or it could be, like, the weirdest of the lost and found. We’ve had some freaky shit show up in the normal lost and found, but what if that wasn’t the worst of it?

Still working on my theories.

Tomorrow I might sneak in there. The hallway isn’t busy usually, so if I can just get thirty seconds I can be in.

I’m doing it.

Probably.

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