There was a girl crying on the stairs. I could hear her sobs and sniffs through the door, and the even tones of her (presumed ex-) boyfriend failing to appease her, and apparently not even trying.
She’s gone now. I heard the tenement door close and there are no more sounds.
Standing there in my hallway I felt for her. And when her (presumed ex-) boyfriend was no longer talking, I ventured out into the stairwell, and I entered her private sphere of grief.
She was pretty, blonde, dressed in black with smeared mascara. She was sorry, she said repeatedly, sorry for making a noise in my flat. I sat for a few minutes on the step above her and she told me how she felt like such a fool, and she was sorry for making noise, and that I didn’t have to stay.
I said I didn’t mind about the noise, and I was worried about her because I could hear she was upset, and could I do anything, and would she like a cup of tea? But she was still sorry, and there was nothing I could do for her, so I left her there; and she left me here, wondering.
