Mila was the type to stick her foot in doors, push them open –“wait!”- like in films. Her laundry piled. She had a monster creeping, inching out of the wastepaper basket.
Mila was the type to forget dates. Once, she left a wineglass behind the fridge for a fortnight. She was the type to slam tables, to delete contacts, then beg for them to be re-entered. She forgot phone numbers. She grew anger in pots, in lip stain.
Mila was not the type to forgive forgetting a trigger – not when it was staircases.
Not on the anniversary of her fall.