On Staircases, Stray Words, and the Risk of Trying to Be Kind

There ought to be a name for that feeling of wanting to say a word, of remembering what it means and even a few of its letters, of almost seeing it there in your mind, and then, when you go to say it, nothing comes out at all — or worse, something else entirely does.

Whether there's a name for it, I don't know. What I do know is that it happens to me fairly often, but it had never done me any real harm.

Until today.

Today seemed like any other day. People living their lives, coming and going inside the complex where I live. Since I'm only one floor up, I can witness their routines more or less up close: the ones who go out walking first thing in the morning, the ones who head to the street market, the ones who sit on the benches to talk with the neighbors while bathing in the rare moments of sun that make it past the apartment towers.

And then the intercom buzzes, announcing a delivery for me to pick up at the lobby.

In retrospect, let me now make the assessment I failed to make at the time: I was, as is fated on Saturdays, thoroughly at ease from being home: a light dress that didn't match the different-colored top I was visibly wearing underneath, my hair disheveled the way I insist on letting it express itself, and, thanks to some cold symptoms, I had added a disposable mask to the overall composition; which may have come out somewhat peculiar, but then again: I was only going to the lobby.

The delivery turned out to be several bags, somewhat heavy and awkward to carry, but I was managing, fully aware of the wind that kept trying to lift my dress and made my hair dance several inches above my head, rising as high as it could and then landing back on my forehead, playing at blocking my view.

Wanting to be done with the whole thing at once, too impatient to wait for the elevator, I headed as usual for the stairs — which, being the spiral kind, only fit one person at a time, since the inner edge of each step is too narrow for a foot.

And so, balancing the bags in my hands, breathing heavily inside the mask, and trying to make out the first few steps through the hair that had installed itself in front of my eyes, I notice someone coming down toward me.

The person in question, a woman kind in the way I would like to be, turned around and set about climbing back up the steps, as if to let me pass first and only then come down herself. I didn't think the arrangement was fair — I could have waited, or stepped over to the narrow side of the stair — but I couldn't manage to give my feet the right orders, and they seemed to have understood that if they ran, they'd get out of that uncomfortable situation that much sooner. So I found myself advancing rapidly in her direction, which made her quicken her step, probably having misread my gesture (I can't blame her), at which point I decided to fix things with words, since the body language (hair in my face, mask, bags, ill-fitting dress, feet running toward her) was not helping. And so my idea was to suggest to her that she could go ahead and come down, of course, no problem, I'd make the necessary room, no need to worry. No problem, thank you, don't mention it, good morning, same to you.

But by that point the confusion had turned mental as well, and what happened was that, as my feet began to run, she quickened her steps up the stairs, and instead of the "oh, please, go right ahead" I had planned to say, I screamed "COME HERE!!" at the top of my lungs, as though indignant at the flight of the now-frightened woman, who was running even faster up the stairs while I tried to catch up with her in order to prove that no, I was not some crazed person chasing her, and yes, I was being kind, come here!, I NEED to prove that I'm kind, kindness personified.

By the time I reached the next floor, the woman had (wisely, I must say) disappeared; or else it was me who, out of shame or on account of the hair in my face, couldn't see anything at all, but the fact is that I hope not to run into this neighbor anytime soon, or — at the very least — not to try to be so kind next time.