The Staircase Goes Both Ways

The lobby tile is cool under my shoe. I hold the tooth, wet and yellow, between my thumb and forefinger. A precise, quiet warmth rises from the floor near the granite planter. I watch the stairwell: steps ascend and descend at once, the geometry impossible. The far marble wall shows the date 1988. A green enamel cup rests on a low side table, its rim scored. I do not worry about time; the knowledge of punctuality settles on my chest, heavy and full. The dog, a beagle mix, weighs three pounds less than it should. It shifts its weight on the threshold.