The Date of Tomorrow

At the bottom I read the notice twice. I have brought a loaded cart.

The woman who ordered the flour lives above the repair. When she placed the order she said there were stairs, as though stairs were a number I could add to an address. I said that was all right. I was looking at the next address.

Now I leave the cart against the entrance and take one sack. There are four. One journey becomes four journeys, though the machine in my pocket continues to count one delivery.

The new tread is easy to find. A flower has been painted on it. Its stem runs beneath the edge of my boot, and I lift the boot a little before setting it down. This is ridiculous with a sack against my chest. I cannot see my feet well enough to choose a place for them. The flour shifts and I grip the rail.

At the upper door, nobody answers immediately.

On the second journey I turn the notice over. I don't know why. I am looking for the date. The back has names and quantities instead. Someone needs to dry six uniforms. Someone has promised to come at half past six. There is an empty space against a floor number. A thumbprint has spread the paper there.

I put the notice back.

I had meant to write how many times I crossed it. Four up and four down, if nothing changes. This would have been a contribution to the information. Or a complaint hidden in arithmetic. I have already taken the pencil out.

A door opens below me. A man asks whether I need a hand.

I say, “Is tomorrow today?”

He looks at the notice, then at my sack. He says he doesn't know when it went up.

I want him to be the man on the back of the paper. It would save time. But he has not said that he is, and there is something unpleasant in how quickly I have fitted him into the handwriting.

“Could you stay by the cart?” I ask.

He says he can stay for five minutes.

That is a hand. He puts both of his in his pockets and goes down to the entrance.

On the third journey my phone sounds. I let it sound. On the fourth, the woman at the top has propped her door open with a slipper. She reaches for the sack before I have set it down, and we have a moment of pulling it in different directions. Then we both let go. It lands heavily but stays whole.

Below, the man is looking at his watch. I thank him. There is flour on the rail, a white patch where my fingers caught it. I wipe this with my sleeve before leaving.

I still have the pencil. At the entrance I turn back and write one question below the notice:

Which date?

The pencil catches on the grain underneath. I steady the paper with my other hand. For a moment my thumb covers the beginning of the answer about what may cross.