The Landing

The elevator was broken so I took the stairs.

The third-floor landing has that window

that cuts the afternoon light into pieces.

You were standing in it.

The light was cutting across your face at an angle

that made you look like a stranger,

like someone I'd never had coffee with,

never borrowed money from,

never promised to call and then didn't.

You saw me.

I saw you.

The space between the stairs was too narrow

to pretend we were walking different directions,

too public to ignore each other,

too private to do anything but freeze.

I don't know how long we stood there.

The light didn't move.

You didn't move.

I didn't move.

I stepped around you on the landing.

You didn't say my name.

I didn't say yours.

By the time I reached the next flight,

I couldn't remember if you'd looked sorry

or if I'd just projected that onto your silence,

if there was anything being decided in that moment

or if we were just two people

who used to know each other

standing in a stairwell

pretending we didn't.