Free Audrey’s Door by Sarah Langan

Cheng’s drag queen. But how do you tell the man you love something like that? Kinder just to hide the evidence. Well, maybe not kinder. Maybe just easier.
    “I don’t have your comic books. They’re in the crateunder the futon. Sober up, you turkey,” she said, then closed the door on him. He kicked it back open. The wood shivered as he shoved past her and headed down the hall.
    Countless times growing up, men had busted down the front door, looking for rent money or a fight with Betty. She hadn’t liked it then, and she didn’t like it now. Something squirmed in her stomach (the dust she’d swallowed?). It felt like a worm, writhing in bile. She chased him deeper into the apartment and shoved him from behind. He lurched. She pushed again. Hard. He stumbled but kept walking. She’d never been so angry in her whole life. She didn’t know she had that kind of anger inside of her. She wanted to throttle him, just a little, with her hands or a knife, or the water in the tub. “Get out! Don’t you ever do that! Not ever!”
    He opened doors along the way. Room after room. Not a stick of furniture in sight. Just the new bedroom curtains blowing in the breeze, and metallic white paint. Their emptiness shamed her. Like the apartment was her life, and he was peeking inside it and finding nothing.
    “What are you going to do?” she asked as he stumbled into the den.
    Saraub kicked the air mattress aside. It slid across the wood and into the turret. The vibrations unbalanced Wolverine, who fell. “Hey!” Audrey cried. “Watch it!”
    He was too drunk to notice. “I’m taking my piano,” he said, but he stepped too wide, and stumbled into the Steinway’s closed lid to keep from falling.
    Audrey raced across the room and righted Wolverine. He’d lost some potting soil, but was otherwise unharmed. She held on to him for just a second longer than necessary, then placed him on the floor, so he didn’t fall again. “You’re the one who had them move it. How do you think you’re going to get it out? Are you going to carry a piano on your back?”
    Saraub wedged his shoulder against the baby grand. Its wood was polished and black, and its ivories shone. She came to the other side of the behemoth. Thank you. This piano is probably the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me, and I’m grateful, she wanted to say. So stop being such a jerk!
    Then something happened. She felt like she was on a ship. Everything was moving. Even her feet. The piano began to slide. Its legs groaned in protest. The floor groaned, too, as a layer of its varnish peeled back, and the wood began to splinter. Saraub was pushing the piano!
    She shoved back, in the opposite direction. “You’ll break its legs!” she shouted.
    He kept going. Shoulder against its bulk, legs spread, knees bent, she pushed back with all her might. This was crazy. This was petty, like those families at the trailer parks back in Hinton and Sioux City and Yuma, who couldn’t be bothered to loan each other a cup of milk or a few extra bucks. They were cheap with each other. She’d always figured that rich people knew better, or could at least afford to pretend they did.
    “Stop it!” she shouted. “Just stop it!” He didn’t move. She heard him groan, but didn’t look up. Didn’t want to give him the advantage. She loved this piano. She loved him, too. Had she been wrong in that?
    The piano slid away from her and pulled open the hole in the rotten wood floor. She pushed harder. She was winning!
    “Fuck!” he shouted.
    “Wha—?” She looked up, worried he’d hurt himself, but no. He’d simply let go. Already he was out of the den, staggering down the long hall. He lurched from one side to the other, steadying himself with his hands, like he’d downed a whole bottle in an hour, and the liquor was hitting him harder with every second that passed. He wasn’t just drunk; he was blotto.
    She took a few fast breaths to keep from crying, then chased him. Her