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Haiku | Apr 29 2002

The buzzer in my building works by radio signal. When someone pushes the buzzer downstairs, it sends a signal to the receiver in my apartment, which produces a buzzing sound. Unfortunately the people in the next building have the same system, so whenever someone buzzes their door, it rings in my apartment as well. Since I receive so few visitors, I usually assume that the buzzer is for them and ignore it. There are only two exceptions: when I’m expecting a delivery or when I’m expecting my now ex-girlfriend. When it’s my now ex-girlfriend, or when it was, she would let herself in with the key she still has and I’d go out in the hall and wait for her at the top of the stairs.

I liked doing that. I could hear her steps as she approached. When she made the turn one floor below, I’d say, “Hi, sweetie,” and she’d pause and look up and say, “Hi, sweetie.” I liked that.

When the buzzer buzzed just now, I had the idea that it was her, that she somehow knew that I cried in the shower until the hot water ran out and that I wrote a new haiku for her, the first in a long while (for first five months or so, I wrote her at least one haiku a day). I hurried into the hall and stood at the top of the stairs.

The stairs were filled with silence. I waited a long time, telling myself that perhaps she standing on the first stair, paralyzed with fear. I tried to listen for her breathingwas ; it was so quiet I figured that I would be able to hear her breathing, assuming she was down there. But she wasn’t down there. I know this because I finally went and looked for her. She wasn’t there. I knew she wasn’t there before I went, but I went anyway, because you never know. Or perhaps you do know, but still.

When I returned to my apartment, I disconnected the buzzer.