A door, of sorts

"I like that one," she says to me. "What made you take that, then?"

Just for a moment, I forget where I am.

Without thinking, I tell her that the mismatched wood on the door reminds me of being a kid. Round the allotments, back in those days, people would build whole sheds out of old doors, gates, any old bit of wood they could.

Sort of ugly but - ah, what's the word? - resourceful.

On one level there's that. And on another, I like all the smooth-roughness, rough-smoothness of it all.

She's nodding, listening to my every word. It's this that makes me self-conscious, stops me getting lost in the past.

It's no business of hers. I tell her as much, and after looking at me in a funny way, she goes away.

I don't trust her, even though she seems familiar somehow. Wonder who she is?

And why was she crying?