Opening the door, I walk up the stairs. The whistle rockets at the speed of sound through the stairwell and bounces back to me. The discrepancy is enough to slow my brain to join with the tempo of the echo. My feet slow with the song, stamping with the beat. I slow more until the jaunt is out of my tune and I'm humming a dirge. I eventually slow to one note and one step. I stand on one step, humming a single note, long and low and reverent.
I run out of air and gasp into the silence. There's a twisted mouth on my face. It isn't mine. I'm supposed to be happy. The knotted eyebrows agree with my grimace. Whatever person lies under this face isn't thrilled about something.
I try humming again, but it doesn't feel right to disturb the cathedral of the stairwell. I try cursing instead. That's not much better. It at least sums up my mood, so I do it again, quietly.
Please tell me "I" isn't "you."
ReplyDeleteThat sounded vaguely clever to my slightly delirious ears.
You make very vivid pictures in my mind, and even when I don't like them, they have a sort of beauty to them that I have to acknowledge. Like a good piece of modern art, or something.
Well, thanks. And no, it's not me. Not right now. I have done it before, though. Which is stupid.
ReplyDeleteGood.
ReplyDelete