Hello

(She said hello. I said hi first, not slowing, not stopping, to warn her I was coming down the steep stair hill. She was halfway up and halfway down, her back to me, bleached blonde hair hunched down, cigarette pointing out like an arrow.)

"Hi," I say, and she looks up as I march down the steps, an object in motion.

"Hello," she says as I pass. "How are you?"

"Good, thanks." No time for reciprocal small talk. I've got the beat. There's a song playing in my head and my feet stomp out, dance out, stride out the beat. Past the playground, past the cars, past the sticky smashed pears rotting on the sidewalk, past the lady smoking on the steps.

"You scared me," she calls, not giving up. "I thought you were a big squirrel."

She lets out a little burst of nicotine-charged laughter, quick and bunchy. I laugh too, without looking back. I imagine her sucking a little on her cigarette and peering at me as I charge away. There's music in my head and my feet must follow. Tap, tap, tap down the steps, breaking into long strides when I hit the bottom.

She laughs.

"A very tall squirrel at that!"