What We Do After Falling Down the Stairs

When there is blood, who can be sure if they should call for help. Everyone stares, no one is really alarmed, there is no rush. The blood runs down her face, she runs away from a man in green, yet everything slows when he finds her on the corner, as if she is giving up the chase. He guides her by the neck back to wherever they come from, subduing her first behind the furniture store. Everyone sees what he is doing, everyone knows that is blood streaming down her mouth, but all she can think of is the fall down the stairs. That’s all anyone ever thinks about, except no one ever thinks about the trip or the doorknob in the way, and no one looks towards the crowd who is strangely confused, drawn into figuring out who tripped whom.
The police on motorcycle arrives, pulling over a red car but it isn’t the man, it isn’t the woman, there is no blood, so he sets off again around the block. No lights blaring this time; he doesn’t know where to go or what to do. He could stay with the rest of the crowd and wander aimlessly, not sure what is happening, where we are going, or what’s to become of them. We’ll keep on the corner, turning as an ambulance chugs by. In the back, lying down with plenty of tissue and the man in green with hands around her neck, perhaps she will tell the men--she will tell them all--they are mistaken. They can turn this around right now because she has only fallen down the stairs.