Much of life sounds like feet travelling up a staircase in a public or semi-public corridor. That might-be-coming-here noise. That maybe-it’s-for-me. That can’t concentrate expectant fear, trembling hand hovering between two interrupted once-connected actions murmur, that waiting for the doorbell to ring, that not doing anything because there’s no time because maybe this summons is my one. That perhaps it’s the boss, the post, the partner, the no one in particular who for some particular reason is coming here for me. It passes, thank god it passes. But that silence between the last known step and entering the region of okay the door definitely isn’t going to shudder this time, that worst-is-over caprice. That slackening. The retreat. The whole thing made a hundred times worse if the stepper has a key.