Coffee: Maxwell House Master Blend, Office Coffee
I hear someone walking above me. I don’t know my upstairs neighbors. I’ve been living here for two years. These days, we’re all private people.
I get to know you by the way you walk. There’s a few people living there. Often, between the hours of six and seven thirty (pm), there’s a lot of banging above my room. I’ve narrowed it down to two options: you’re working out; you’ve lost control of the thing that lives in your closet.
Usually I don’t hear you. That doesn’t mean you’re not there. There are many things we do that don’t make enough noise to rock the floorboards. You might be reading. Or knitting your grandmother a sweater. Or you could be staring out the window at the lights above the playground, wondering why that one special person said no to kids. Or maybe you’re catching up on the Soaps.
The footsteps I hear tonight are light, brief, comfortable. You’re not thinking about what your feet are doing. It’s Thursday, you’re settling down. I picture pink bathrobes still damp from nine-thirty’s shower and a cup of water you’ll take to your bed. I don’t know where you keep the bed but it might be above me. And there you are, lying down peacefully, not knowing how your sound carries, or who the floorboards take it to.
Currently Reading: Queen, Suzanne Crain Miller
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I don’t know how long I kept at it…Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar
I felt reasonably safe, stretched out on the floor, and lay quite still.
It didn’t seem to be summer any more