“Would you jump ?” 

I look over at her. I don’t answer. I look at her. And she doesn’t look back. She bends over the banister of the stairwell, presses her body against the slender metal posts. She wraps her fingers around them until her knuckles turn white. I wish I could - or even wanted - to say something, but I simply study her. 

She wears her hair open like usual. When she bends forward, her hair slides down her shoulders, predicts her fall. I can hear her breathing. 

Far away there are the typical sounds of a lunch break at school. Muffled sounds of steps, screaming, laughter that seems eerie. Schools aren’t built for laughter. 

She moves the fingers of her left hand, her ring touches a post. Nothing more. No other sound, no movement. It smells of linoleum, paint, dust and old paper. 

I turn back to the window. I look down at the narrow street behind the building, at the other school facing me. I look at every day life. People going to work, shopping, just taking a walk. I look at a mirror. Classrooms, books, endless corridors. I put my hand against the milky windowpane. It feels cool, thin. Thin enough to be fragile. Almost each day I resist the urge to reach out, push my hand through that window, a gesture of freedom. I imagine how the glass splits beneath my fingers, silently, painlessly. Time stands still and I don’t have to move, neither forwards nor backwards, I revel in the feeling of floating. I don’t do it. Like each day. And the tension and the fear remain. 

I look at my watch, lean back against the wall and look over at her again. She hasn’t moved. The bell rings. I close my eyes and only open them again when it’s over. The ringing fades away, the muffled sounds from only minutes ago grow louder. It seems as if, suddenly, it has become harder to breathe. I wonder if she feels the same way. She leans forward some more. 

“No,” I reply calmly. 

She stops her movement, hesitates, then pushes her body away from the banister, looks at me and nods. 

Students squeeze their bodies through the door at the end of the corridor and gather in front of the classroom, waiting for the teacher to let them in. The teacher arrives, the door opens and the crowd squeezes through it. 
We are the last to enter the room. I reach for the door handle, the door closes, I sit next to her. She will never ask again, I will never answer again. 

Her question was serious, my answer reflex. How could I have told her that I was already falling ?
 
 

© by Friday VanTassel, 2002