It costs only 50¢ to enter the Closet of Love. The nominal fee covers electricity and the occasional light bulb replacement. The light bulb is never turned on, however, except for the occasional dusting and spritz of air freshener. Because when a couple enters the Closet, all is perfectly dark. You can see only love.
The Closet of Love fits four average-sized adults, or two whose bellies say, “I am the product of beer and always taking the elevator instead of the stairs.” The Closet is open one day a week, and never on the same day or at the same time. (For everyone knows, no one knows when true love is going to come along.)
“Hello,” says the woman who wants to fall in love.
“Hi,” says the man who wishes the same.
Each hands a quarter to the ticket taker. He tears their ticket, and with a smile, hands each of them half. They walk towards the Closet door and step inside. The door shuts and the woman speaks.
“I don’t love you yet. Is the Closet broken?”
“No, but let’s give it time,” the man says, his voice shaking. He has never been good at love. Not since the prom accident 16 years ago. He still has a scar.
“Okay,” she says and stands quietly, waiting.
“What that ticking?” the man asks.
“That’s my biological clock. I hope we fall in love soon.”
“Will you marry me?” the man asks. “I love you so much it hurts.”
“I want to think it over,” the woman says. “Yes, yes, I’ll marry you. I love you, darling.”
A third voice, a man’s, interrupts. “Hello.”
If it weren’t so dark, the engaged couple would have seen each other jump back simultaneously.
“Who are you?” the woman asks, drawn towards the new man’s voice.
“Want to have an affair?” the new voice says.
“Well, I just got engaged, but something about you excites me. And I want one last grasp at freedom and what could be. Just don’t tell my fiancé.”
“Tell me what?”
“Nothing, dear. I have to work late tonight.”
“Oh, okay. I’ll just be over here in the corner.”
The woman places her hands on the large, brawny shoulders of her illicit lover and pushes him away.
“I can’t do this anymore,” she says, turning her head away in the darkness.
“But I have to see you again,” her lover says.
“I can’t. I love–” Tears sprinkle down on the floor of the Closet of Love –“another.” She takes her mistake by the hand and kisses him on the cheek. He is sad, but he will recover. It cost him only 15¢ to be here.
The Closet door opens and the woman and the no-longer-nervous man emerge, hand-in-hand.
“My scar is gone,” the man in love says.
“It will never come back,” the woman in love says.
The Closet of Love’s door closes. The ticket taker writes a note to himself to begin charging 55¢.
Dylan Lee is an advertising copywriter in Portland.
Photo copyright 2007, Andy Batt, www.andybatt.com.