George vs the Door
George looked at the door handle and licked his lips. He knew what was on the other side, and he could barely contain his excitement.
His hand quivered as it reached toward the door-- but then, overcome with a wave of self doubt, he pulled it back. Beads of sweat were begging to form on his brow. His eyes anxiously shifted from left to right. He was alone. All that existed was he, and the door.
George closed his eyes and counted to three. He felt his arm start to lift, his hand traveling forward... and then, on the very tips of his fingers, he felt the cold rush of the brass metal door handle. He let the feeling of coldness linger, slowly traveling up his arm, tingling to his core.
He opened his eyes. The self doubt began to drain from his sweaty body; he knew what he had to do. Animalistic hunger was filling every corner of his being. The sense of urgency was overwhelming.
His hand tightened on the handle and twisted. He heard the clich of the door latch - so loud! - and began to push against the door. It swung open.
And then he saw it. Framed in the darkness by a single hanging lightbulb: a cake. And on the cake was written the simple but all-telling message:
"Happy Birthday, George!"
George once again licked his lips, and pulled a small spoon out from the inside pocket of his suit jacket.
It wasn't George's birthday.