Key

He has a key.

It’s a nice key, heavy enough, a solid chunk of brass so old it’s almost black.  It tingles in his hand.  His mother gave it to him the day he “became a man”, whatever that might mean.  That was a while ago.

He carries the key always.  It’s on his keychain, with all the other keys–car, home, office, shed, footlocker, chest, three Master locks, and one tiny bike lock.  He’s also got a wallet in his back pocket all the time, and wears a watch which usually tells the time rather well.  Sometimes, his watches do other things.  He has a mighty collection of watches.

This isn’t a story about his watches.

His name’s Dan.  It’s a simple enough name, and he likes it, and he wears it proudly.  He looks like a Dan, neat dark hair, good clothes, tall and lithe, and he believes he’s fairly good looking.  But he doesn’t really worry about that.

There’s a storm brewing in the distance.  Bars opening up, but he’s still in the library.  He’s been there three nights running now.  He’s asked the librarian questions about biographies, Ray Bradbury novels, the magazine selection, moon flights, Aesop, gothic architecture, and Japanese death poems.  He doesn’t like that the writers of the Bushido code were not exclusively warriors.

He goes back again and again, for advise on using the Internet for genealogical questions, ordering an interlibrary book, local places for good music, and Mexican food.

Her name’s Sally.  She’s all red hair and dimples.  She’s older than she looks and younger than she pretends to be.  She doesn’t have glasses, but does wear the same silver pendant every day.  She bites the end of her pen and sometimes sucks her bottom lip into her mouth when she’s concentrating.  She twirls her hair in her fingers and often, when she thinks no one’s looking, stares out the windows at the clouds, attaching shapes and figures and even names.

Dan’s even asked her about the clouds, and this night, finally, since he’s fairly sure she expects something, he asks if he can buy her some coffee.

“I don’t drink coffee,” she says.  She waits a beat, during which Dan’s chest turns itself inside-out.  “But if you’ll entertain a hot chocolate instead, the library closes in five minutes.”

It’s easy to find a place for hot chocolate.  Any café will do.  They sit outside, and it’s one of the sweetest, creamiest chocolates either of them has ever tasted.

Sometime during the night, which stretches infinitely toward dawn, Dan shows Sally his the key his mother gave him.  “I’ve been saving this,” he says.

“What for?”

“Tonight, I think,” he says.  “It’s a magic key.”

Her eyebrows dance in anticipation.  “What kind of magic does it do?”

“It opens hearts.”

“Really?”  Sally sips more chocolate.  When she sets it down, both hands wrap around the mug and she leans closer.  “Do you intend to use it to unlock my heart?”

“Oh, no,” he says.  He takes the key off the ring, places it on the table between them, and leans back.  “It doesn’t work like that.  It can only unlock one heart.”

She’s somewhat taken aback.  “Not mine, then?”

He says, “Mine.”

A beat, two, a long stretch of silence, before Sally picks up the key and holds it up.  She examines it a moment, the nicks, the scratches, the lack of tarnish.  There’s dust in its teeth.  She can see reflection in the flat of it.  She closes her hand around the key and smiles, looks at Dan from under her eyebrows, and says, as though they are rather delicious words, but also so that there’s no doubt, “That makes you mine.”