The song between floors

An original imagined personal account of singing in a stairwell.

In the stairwell, my singing acquires a confidence it has never displayed in the kitchen. A thin note leaves my mouth and returns wearing a larger coat. For three floors, I sound like somebody who might reasonably continue.

I begin quietly. The first landing receives a line, the second receives a more ambitious version of it, and by the third I have promoted myself to the chorus. There is no audience to disagree. The handrail shines beneath the narrow windows, and the building appears to be listening with unusual generosity.

Then a door opens. A neighbour steps out carrying a bag of bottles, and my magnificent phrase becomes a cough. She says good morning as though the last minute has contained nothing more elaborate than stairs. I answer in the ordinary voice I apparently keep for other people.

After she leaves, I try the final line again. It comes back smaller because I have stopped pushing it so hard. That seems fair. The stairwell has offered encouragement, not a certificate.

I reach the top with the song unfinished. For once, I do not take that as a reason to stop liking it.

Examine the methods the writer uses to present pleasure and self-consciousness in singing.