Scratched Vinyl

Entering the apartments, the cement halls of the entryway were a stark contrast to the blinding fall sunlight that was slipping out of sight behind him. Peter pulled his collar up and closer to his neck. This place was all too familiar, and yet[,] for a place he had once called home, he felt that he had never belonged anywhere less. Or felt less welcome.  With a quick intake of breath, he took a final drag of his cigarette and tossed it to the ground, grinding it against the wall with the side of his foot.  He didn’t worry about sparing the apartment’s interior – these concrete floors had seen worse.
         As he knocked on the door of the second floor apartment he caught a glimpse of his reflection in a distorted panel of glass.
         New Door.  God, he looked like hell.  He desperately ran his fingers through his hair, trying at least to flatten the unruly graying strands that had taken to standing straight up. He looked like a mad scientist caught up in the glory days of the seventies. He quickly withdrew his hand when he saw the glimpse of a shadow moving behind the door.
         She always took her damn time. His face was still wore a sour expression as she pulled the door back, standing with a defiant stance in the doorway.
         “Peter.” She made no move to let him in. He responded with a slight jerk of the head and she sighed and turned around. She walked back down the hall towards the kitchen, leaving the door open as she went. He knew this was a sign to follow, and closed the door silently behind him before making his own way down the floral patterned hallway. He’d always hated those stupid flowers. She’d begged him time and time again, if he hated the damn flowers so much, to please take them down and repaper. But of course, he’d never hated them enough to exert that kind of effort.
         He shook the memory from his head. The poor girl – he knew how frustrating he could be. He entered the kitchen and found her emptying the kettle into her teapot. Let’s see…it was 3:00 now, she’d be on her…fourth pot. Fifth, if she was having a bad day.
         “Fourth pot?” He ventured.
         “Sixth.” There was a strain in her voice. Lucky for him, her back was turned, and she didn’t see his eyebrows arch as they took refuge in his shaggy bangs. Lucky for her, she was still pouring water, and he didn’t see her face contort before she quickly righted it, and turned around, wielding a black cardboard sheath like a sword.
         “Here.” She shoved it at him with a twitching ferocity, her eyes on the spice rack immediately to her right.
         Peter took the album but didn’t move. She glanced quickly at him, before returning to her vicious staring contest with the spice rack. Her body seemed to fidget in its already awkward position, half way between running and an insistent inability to move. Her eyes, still flickering between him and the paprika screamed Why isn’t he leaving? He’s still here! Why is he still here!?
         He hadn’t expected her to be like this. Cold and distant, yes, but nervous? Almost afraid? He began to wonder how life with the new husband was shaping up.
         “Thanks.” he grunted, and turned around. No matter. It wasn’t his problem now. She’d wanted him out – now he was out. Nothing he could do about it.
         He heard the sound of a clean teacup coming down from the shelf as he walked out the door. This time the sky was a deep blue, the sun having already made its way past the horizon, signaling the end of another day. But still, the overcast sky was brighter than the bleak, stagnant walls of the apartment.
         He hugged the vinyl to his chest.
         “You’re home baby.”