City Gas Control

Today I woke up to a heavy knock on the door. The door to my room was closed as well, so the dry sound of it was strong enough to make it through the steel door at the entrance, across the kitchen slash living room area, through the wooden door to my room and finally through the thick layer of post-nocturnal sleepiness. I thought about the force that had released the knock when suddenly another fist hammered against the main door.

I got up, zombied through my apartment and stopped at the door. “Who is this?” I barked, and got surprised by my own voice. “City gas control,” said a woman's voice. It took me a moment to match the image of the heavy knocker with the voice of the middle-aged gas controllerin. It was half past nine and my consciousness and I had been awake for less than five minutes. “Just a second,” I said to the grey steel door, this time in a less intimidating tone.

I turned around to the kitchen spot and washed my face over the sink. Then I let out a deep sigh and went back to my room to change. I found my currently out-of-use basketball shorts and a t-shirt. Sigh. When was the last time I hit two free-throws in a row? Was it in Germany? Probably back in Germany. Suddenly I remembered the door. How much time had passed since I first answered it? I went back to the entrance and undid the lock. City gas control.