I approach the building from the north, she from the east. She is not aware of me yet, I keenly of her. We are equidistant from the building’s front door and my gait is niftier than hers, however, my walkway is meandering and will conveniently lead me behind her stride once our paths converge – inside myself I shout joyous gratitude to the person who, some many days ago, drew the plans for this courtyard and decided to make the north sidewalk a winding one. At what point, I wonder, will she sense me. Now, she knows I am behind her, I know it. I need not make a feign noise to alert her of my existence. She reaches the door just far enough ahead of me where she can open it and walk through and not be rude by letting it close behind her. Instead, she holds it for me, without looking at me. I do not at all make quicker my move to oblige. I make her wait a few seconds longer than she thought she would have. This is now a game. I intend to win. I nod my head as a thank you. She smiles distantly. We walk side by side in the foyer to the lift. She drifts back just slightly (or did I heighten my pace?), allowing me the advance so I can be the one who calls the elevator. The intermission is brief, but within it, my glance captures her silhouette against the blinding daylight streaming in from the opposite door. On the eighth day, God created…
The bell rings, the door opens. She enters, as do I. She presses for the fourth floor, my floor as well. There is a space between us, although there isn’t: the tiny atmosphere that accompanies our ascension is one space, in it, we are one together. She is sorting through her mail. By its contents, I know who she is. She lives in a town-home, not an apartment building, not a house. I know this by the large volume of mail she has gathered. One doesn’t let one’s mail accumulate like that unless one has to visit a mailbox located a distance from their residence. She’s the kind of gal who doesn’t visit her mailbox often. This does not indicate she is a very busy person but that she usually returns to her home late at night. For now it just past 9A.M. and she has collected her last weeks worth of mail on the way out rather than on the way in. She does not hide anything, nor does she even think to. She doesn’t care who may see what kind of an array of items she has either sent for and now received or have been gratuitously forwarded to her. Clothing catalogs dominate the stack, a full assortment from high fashion to- the bell interrupts my study. The journey completed, she lets the viewed materials fall back into the pile. The door opens. Inadvertently, I am standing closer to it than she is. Taking the opportunity to test me, she waits an instant longer a moment before moving. I pass the test, I do not move, but neither do I make a gesture for her to depart first, which she does. She goes her way, I go mine, we say goodbye without speaking. We’ll save the first words for another time. I’ll savor the anticipation.