Morning Stairs

 

Morning Stairs

I am already out even though it's early. I am wearing yesterday's clothes, but I don't care. I can look pretty later when I have time. Right now, I'm my half woken self with a tender face from the morning wash. That's enough for now.

The street is surprising. I mean, surprisingly empty. No one is waiting at the first bus stop I pass by, and only one commuter is at the second.

Where are all the cars? 

Asleep at home with their owners, I imagine. Their humans are still submerged in the land of slumber. The world of work has not yet entered into their consciousness. It stands at bay, ready to crash into the waves of deep sleep.

I smile at my state, wakefulness blowing on me as I speed into it on my bike. Ah, I can go as fast as I want! I thought. There's nobody to stop me.

The to-wake world had left me with space to start the day. I meet a friend full of sleep for a tea and talk, and then come back home.

The foyer smells of stagnant perfume sticking on the stairs. It doesn't permeate up the stairwell, but sits in the entrance air, taking up a chunk of it. The air doesn't move as I come into it, but rather becomes more dense with my neigbor's voice. The smells try to squeeze the sound out – there is hardly enough space for the old smells let alone a shout erupting into it. She hurries past me, her mother filling even more space with an admonishing look after her daughter. The air allows it, but immediately goes back to being stuffy as she shuts the door.

"I'll see you later," I half ask the closing door.

She nods in the semi-darkness as I fumble for my keys. I open the door and the odor of my boyfriend's breakfast eggs meets me. I breathe it in.

Text: Kristen Mastromarchi

Photo: "Stairwell, ca. 1901" by Boston City Archives is licensed under CC BY 2.0.