Jim was away on a job-hunting expedition, and I was alone in the apartment except for our cat, Tosca. I'd been trying to sleep with the bedroom windows wide open to catch any errant breeze, and had discarded my sweat-soaked nightgown. Tosca, oblivious to the heat, lay across my neck. Apart for my furry boa, I was stark naked.

Around two in the morning I gave up trying to sleep. Tossing the disgruntled cat aside, I got up and went into the kitchen for a cold drink. It was no intruder that caused the loud slamming noise that made me jump and slop sticky rivulets of juice down myself. It was merely a breeze that had sprung up and swept the bedroom door closed. Good, I thought, a breeze might bring with it the possibility of sleep after all. But sleep was to be denied me that night.

I returned to the bedroom to discover that the door had not only slammed closed, but was locked from the inside. It had one of those buttons on the knob that you had to push in to lock. I expect that button had been pushed into the locked position for some time, but it had gone unnoticed because there had never been a need for Jim or me to close the door. I jiggled the handle back and forth, but the door remained stubbornly shut.

I slumped down on the living room sofa to consider the situation. It was not good! The first cause of anxiety was that there wasn't a stitch of clothing in the entire apartment that wasn't behind that locked door. The hall closet was occupied by Jim's toolbox and various other sundries, but nothing remotely useful such as a coat or a blanket. Even the moth-eaten afghan that had once adorned the sofa had been thrown out during a recent "getting the place fixed-up" attempt. The sad fact was I had nothing larger than a dishtowel with which to cover my nakedness.

Could I stay this way until Jim came home? Well, no, probably not.

The cat was locked in the bedroom, minus food and litter box. Worse, our one telephone was also behind the closed door. Jim would call around six in the morning, and when he didn't get an answer he'd worry. He'd know I couldn't have gone out because he had our one car with him, and I never went for a walk that early in the day—especially knowing he was going to call. What if he panicked and called somebody to check on me? I imagined the police battering down the door and encountering me in my birthday suit.

Another possible scenario was that Tosca would begin yowling and the neighbors would pound on the door to complain. This wasn't a good time to meet the neighbors. The situation looked bleak.

I am, however, resourceful.

I retrieved a long pointy thing from Jim's toolbox. I didn't have the slightest idea what its proper function was, but I tried to pick the lock with it. I stuck it through the little round hole in the middle of the doorknob, figuring that if I could push it in far enough the lock would snap open. Alas, things didn't prove that simple, and after repeated attempts I gave up.

It occurred to me then that I was going to have to saw the lock off the door. I realize this sounds somewhat excessive, but I could come up with no alternative. I was going to have to be quiet about it—the neighbors might ignore a yowling cat for a while, but the sound of sawing in the middle of the night was quite another thing.

I set to work. This was no easy task I had set myself.

I don't know how long I worked on that door. It seemed like hours. Sweat soaked me; I had blisters on my hands, and I was making little progress! There was a gash in the door, but it was insignificant considering the amount of effort expended. I was taking more and more breaks to rest and weep, while trying desperately to come up with another solution. But I was too panic-stricken for my mind to function properly. Meanwhile, Tosca wasn't caterwauling yet, but the meows were increasing in volume and frequency.

I could see the sun peeking above the trees.

I sawed on—exhausted, frightened, angry. How dare Jim leave me alone like this—in a strange country, no family, no friends, no car. And now no clothing! Mother had been right after all. I should never have married him. Should have stayed in England where it's safe. Anything resembling logic had, by this time, been sweated or wept out of me. I fell to the floor and considered suicide. Surely the discovery of my unclothed dead body would cause me less embarrassment than the discovery of my naked living self.

Deciding that I may as well die from exhaustion as from anything else, I took one more swipe at the door handle with the pointy thing. The lock snapped open. No, I'm not kidding. That darned lock gave an innocent little click, and the door sprang wide. In my frenzied condition I was sure that door gaped in laughter. I gave it a vicious kick, then clutching my injured toe, collapsed onto the bed. I vaguely recall a flurry of furious fur flying past my head just before I lost consciousness.

Later I considered how I might hide the damage to the door from Jim. Of course this proved impossible, so I attempted to explain what happened. He stared at me with a mixture of awe and incredulity, but didn't say anything. We hadn't been married long and he was still tolerant in those days. I certainly wasn't in any mood myself to discuss the situation overmuch.

When we left Washington our security deposit was not returned. The landlord claimed that somebody had damaged the bedroom door. I wonder what he thought could possibly have happened to it.

Margaret Davidson was born and raised in England but now lives in upstate New York. She has been writing short stories and poetry for about five years. Hery husband offers encouragement and her cat helps with the typing.

Some of her stories have been published in small press magazines including, Thema, The First Line, and The Great Blue Beacon.