Save Me a Stool

The shoelace comes undone in one pull. The letters are on lined paper, on the backs of receipts, on one hotel envelope, and the oldest have gone brown at the folds. Each is a line or two in your handwriting, and each is signed with your name.

You read them as they come. On lined paper: I'll bring the folding chairs. On a receipt: It was me who left the gate open. On another: Yes, both of us, Tuesday. On a third: I did not mean the dog. Hold the table, I'm parking.

The last is on the hotel envelope: I'll be at the bar by nine. Save me a stool.

At the far end of the aisle, the other way from the bins, a second stair climbs to a door. Under it is a strip of light, and the sound of glasses.