Trust
Turn the handle and out the door. Lock up and walk down the avenue to the main road. Over the crossing and catch the bus. Buy a coffee and croissant and sit in the square with the early office workers (bright coloured lanyards). Breakfast over, take the slow train to a town by a river.
Peel off a layer of familiarity and see where the trust lies.
The hands that made the latch that I have used half a dozen times a day for the last 40 years. The locksmith who made copies of the keys when I moved in and who did not run off an extra set. The builders who fitted the new door frame. The rules in the heads of those who pass by that make kicking in a door a rare event.
The cars at the crossing are held by the power of a red light. Recently I have taken to making eye contact with the drivers of the first few cars. Stepping onto the bus I relinquish control to the driver and join the company.
The coffee bar woman checks the label on the milk and picks up the croissant so carefully with tongs and flips it into the paper bag. Practiced movements. I state my coffee preferences in one big list but she asks the standard questions anyway so I repeat each one in response to the rehearsed question.
The square is busy with many pairs of eyes looking down at screens. Guard leans out of the window and checks the platform both ways. Doors close and the signal changes the train gathering speed.
So many people carrying out familiar actions.