“The bathroom’s down at the end of the hall, last door on the left.”

“Thanks.” He stood up from the table, placed his linen napkin on his empty dessert plate, and walked away. He planned to go to the bathroom, return without sitting down again, and say his goodbyes. Karl would probably be upset at having to leave early, but he’d had enough. His husband’s friends were fine, but the evening had been more a chore than a respite. He had nonetheless done his duty with grace and a smile.

He walked down the surprisingly long hall with no lighting of its own. As he reached the promised room, he noticed another, just beyond, on the right. There was a bluish flickering light coming from the bottom of that door.

“Probably a television left on,” he muttered to himself.

He went into the bathroom, shut the door, and, by habit, locked it. He didn’t really need to go, but he had to make a show of it. He waited a minute, flushed the toilet, and then turned on the faucet. He splashed cold water on his face to revive himself for the drive home. He stared at his reflection, studying the lines that age and stress were etching, every day rendering another pass of time’s scalpel on his skin, each pass slightly deeper. He was only 38, but in the harsh light of the bathroom’s mirror he felt old. He sighed, slapped his cheeks, and walked out.

As he left, he glanced again at that same door across the hall. He now saw what seemed to be blue smoke seeping through the bottom.

He walked over and placed his hand on the door. It was cold, so no fire. With a mixture of apprehension and curiosity, he pushed it open. He was bathed in that bluish smoky light. It was bright but not blinding. He could make out no details of the room; it was as if someone had left a fog machine running, or as if the room were a cloud. He crossed the threshold.

“Please come in,” a female voice said.

Startled, he began backing out.

“If you leave now, you may never return.”

He paused, confused.

“Please, come in,” the voice repeated.

He took but two steps. He could still see nothing but fog ahead. When he looked back, even after only two steps, he could barely make out the doorway.

“Where am I?” he asked.

“This is a portal,” the voice replied.

“To what?”

“To another world.”

“What does that mean?”

“It is a gateway to somewhere else. To another place. To another time.”

“What kind of place? What kind of time?”

“This is not a trick. It is a chance.”

“A chance for what?”

“To leave. You feel trapped. You feel as if the glorious gift of life is slipping away.”

“I don’t.”

“I do not care if you lie to me, but do not lie to yourself.”

“Where will it take me?”

“Anywhere.”

“But what about Karl? What about my parents? What about my clients?”

“This is not about them. This is about you.”

He looked around, as if a different view of the swirling clouds might give him needed perspective. He could perceive neither the ceiling nor the floor, if they still existed.

“I need to think this over.”

“You do not have that luxury. This is your chance. It is only your chance. You must choose. Now.”

“I can't just leave.”

“You can. If you don't, you are choosing not to. But it is your choice.”

“I must say goodbyes.”

“No goodbyes. If you choose a new path, everything will be different. You will never know this life, nor will they.”

“That's not fair.”

“Fair? Would you prefer not to choose? Then come no further and retreat on the same path you entered.”

“But now I know I have this choice. It is not the same.”

“It is. This choice was always available. It is only your awareness that has changed.”

“How do I know another path might not be worse?”

“You don’t.”

“You are cruel.”

“Perhaps. But then leave. Go back to the dinner party. It will be as if this place, this option, never existed.”

“But now I will always know.”

“That is irrelevant. Regret is not a matter of knowledge but of your decision as to what to do with that knowledge, that history.”

“But you have now forced the possibility of regret on me.”

“We are going in circles. This is not something you may reason out with formal logic. Your legal training will not assist you here.”

“But, why me?”

“Why you? Are you so solipsistic that you think you are the only one ever given a choice? You are not so special. It is simply your time. Pick. Go forward or go back.”

He thought for a bit, then smiled.

“Then I choose not to choose.”

“Is that really your choice? To lie on the precipice of all possibilities but never to experience any? That is not permitted.”

“Aha. Is it because I have found a loophole?”

“No, it is because I am not that cruel. What you are proposing is your own eternal Hell of indecision.”

“Please, can you show me the best way?”

“I cannot.”

“Why?”

“Because such a way does not exist.”

“Then,” he paused, looking all around at whatever the room was, this land of possibly endless opportunity, “I shall return.”

“You have chosen.”

He retreated through the fog back out into the hallway, the blue light going black the moment he shut the door behind him. He had chosen this life. He walked back to the table and said his thank yous for a lovely evening and that he looked forward to seeing his gracious hosts again soon. He stepped out of the home into the cool, clear night and toward his car. As he clicked on the key fob to unlock the door, he had the nagging feeling that he had forgotten something in the house, but he could not place his finger on what he might be missing. He opened the door, got in the car, and turned on the ignition. As he drove off, there remained the unmistakable sense of emptiness, of a void.

“Oh well,” he thought, “if only I had a husband to help me remember such things.”