Occasionally, when I come home from work and before I open my door, I will hear the most disconcerting sounds. They frolic down the hallway, rambunctious and invisible.
I heard voices, as fragile as silver thread, embroidering the air with affectation and flippancy. I heard laughter, soaring and birdlike, responding to witticisms that I missed as I tried to find my keys.
There was the sharp protest of glass tables, as jewelry accidently scraped against their surfaces (a sound I know well). There was the intimate, private rustling of silken sleeves and dresses that dripped with sequins and impudence.
In equally soft undertones, whispered asides were exchanged like rings – engraved, golden secrets. These sounds were like dolls – tiny, delicate and perfectly formed – and they winked at me through the keyhole.
By the time I had finally untangled my keys, unlocked my door and burst into my apartment, I was full of questions, hoping for an introduction and afraid that I had arrived too late.
But the voices had stopped, the tables were cleared away, and the party was silent again.