The Note on the Counter

The note says eleven PM. Blue

ink on lined paper—I knew

as soon as I read it: the chair.

I'd pulled it from the desk. The bare

drag of legs on the floor, one

second. That's all. I've done

nothing worse than that. The walls

are thin. I know. These halls

carry everything. Three days

the note has sat there. I phrase

what I'd say each time I pass:

the chair, the hour, the glass

of water I'd been getting up for.

Brief. Sufficient. Her door

is twelve steps down. The keys

still sit on the note. The freeze

I can't account for. One

sound. Twelve steps. I've done

this kind of thing before.

I know what I'd say. The door

has been there since Tuesday.

Blue ink. The fold. The way

I keep not going. The chair

is at the desk. Still there.