To the woman who lives in 2C

To the woman who lives in 2C,

Every time I hear the clicking of the metal key in your door, everything inside me changes. I know it is your door that is opening because yours is the only one with an extra lock installed. I memorize these sounds. Every morning, just after the world wakes up and the sun begins to shine, slowly warming me from the top down, I hear you coming. Your heels click-clicking down the walkway is enough to give me shivers down to my rebar bones but I try my hardest to remain steady for you to walk down. But, when you place your small, smooth hands around my handrail I can hardly stand it. And then you lightly trace them all the way down as you step. You have no idea what that does to me. Your gentle touch travels all the way through me: my hinges weaken, my beams creak with excitement, my cement skin feels like it is going to crumble into dust right there and then. Each time your heel presses down on me, time suspends for a little longer. I feel one long press followed by a short sting that contains the rest of you. I send my mass upwards to try to meet your feet, to make it easier for you to descend. That is all I can do.

Usually your weight is not like the others. You seem to move effortlessly wherever you go, upright, held together, composed. But yesterday you got home late. The sun had already stopped shining on me and I was beginning to get colder, but with one foot on me I began to buzz and vibrate again. But this time your gate was slow, and you seemed heavier somehow. After seven excruciating steps you stop and grip my rail harder. And then something happened that I will never forget. I felt you, more of you… what must be your body, on my step. One heeled foot left me and returned flat and soft, and warm. And then the next. And then your head leaned against the pole, your hair tickling me in the wind, and you wrapped your arms and hands around the rail. I could feel you breathing. I might be crazy, but it almost felt like you were holding me. I remained there with you (what else is a staircase going to do, I suppose?) for a while.

I feel your warmth and I hear your breath, but I wish so much to know what you look like. I wish I knew the word in your language for how I am feeling, I would whisper it over and over again to you. I wish I could smell your shampoo, your neck, your sweat. I wish to hold you, to touch you back, to have a body that fits with yours. But I will take what I can get. I felt complete in this moment with you, your live body against my hard concrete; I cooling you, you warming me; I unable to move, you not wanting to. I wish I could know you. What is your name? If I could just hear it once, I would never be able to get it out of my mind.

Ever yours,

Staircase