The spare key under the mat

You know exactly where it is. The back of a drawer you don't open on purpose. A number saved under a name that doesn't say what it is. A place that stays open late, and how long it takes to get there. You didn't forget it. You decided not to think about it.

That's why this argument feels so strong. It's backed by something within reach. An offer you can't reach gets refused and forgotten. An offer fifteen feet away gets considered. It's a spare key under the mat, and the urge knows which mat. It got you to keep it by calling it insurance.

You kept it for a moment exactly like this one. A way of never fully deciding. Right now it's the only thing between you and a settled question. Get rid of it now, while the urge is loud. Run it under the tap. Snap it. Carry it to the outside bin. Delete the number. Calm you never gets around to this.

Ask God for it on the way to the bin. Give me ninety seconds of nerve. He's walking out there with you, and ninety seconds is all this takes. Then come back and look at the empty spot where it used to sit. The argument just lost the only thing it was standing on. The mat is empty and the question is settled.