Footsteps pass by like a tiny galloping horse in the Triple Crown, racing away.  Footsteps like little waves flow past me.  Footsteps like little waves ebb back into the sea of quiet, with no other sounds but the drone of the radiator and the faint tinkling of girls’ voices.  The jingle of keys and footsteps like a marching band pass by with a “hello” and a bloody nose in tow.  Footsteps like feet pass by with the faint gusting of breathing leading the way upstairs.  Footsteps like friends saunter by, laughing and giggling with green names.  The radiator above moans loudly and then softly again.

A tiny draft whispers over my fingers, cool and fresh.  The bushes past the glass wall dance with the wind outside.  The wide open sky is the consistency of undisturbed custard, smooth and clean, with the color of blue watercolor paint as the brush is dipped into milky white waste water.  The only cloud in sight says “ABC anything but color This Friday $12 $15: the 10^th,” affixed to the sky with Scotch Tape.  The sky pools on the floor before me, fainter though, with brown and off-white speckles mixed in. Books and cold air perfume the space around me.  The chilled tiles eat through my dress and shorts and tights and tingle up through my tailbone and up through my spine.

Footsteps hurry, then stop, change course and retrace their steps.  The air burns my dried nasal passages, and my nose tickles in sympathy upon hearing a far-off sneeze.  The door bursts open, keys jingle, a woman speaks, a man answers and footsteps like colleagues drift into the distance, only to be replaced with the suggestion of a new passerby, but only to disappear on a different route.  Footsteps like tiredness drag by, laden with learning and polyester.  Clunk a water bottle down, test the door, find it locked, and walk away, saddened.  Footsteps like untied shoelaces trod by.  Footsteps like a family of wildebeests clomp by, herded by their mother.  Three stragglers follow behind, and then more and more as the linoleum is pounded and deafened by the young herd returning to their den above.  Older creatures pass in greater volume, with greater weight and greater things to say.  An older creature rolls by with prim, proper footsteps and the scent of coffee beans.  Footsteps like a change of plan turn back.  “We’re open, come in!”  The change has begun.  I should get up before I am trampled.

–Anna Hiser 2012