2.3 : du 'Lanche

Then, on the eleventh hour, of the eleventh day of March, in the year nineteen hundred and thirty-one, Lizelle stumbled as she reached the eleventh stair leading up to her room. She reached for the railing, grasping for steadiness. Her hand slipped away, scraping her knuckles on the rusted nail, jutting outward from the side of the stairwell. She closed her eyes and winced with pain as she sat for a moment, pausing as she leaned against the railing. Her black boots were now scuffed with the traces of paint from the recently whitewashed baseboards. As she sat there regaining her composure on the staircase, she noticed that one of the floorboards was loose. Lizelle reached out and pulled at the wooden slat, wondering if she should remove it completely and have it repaired, or if she should jump up and down on it a few time in hopes that it would cram itself back into place. As she leaned in closer, she discovered something peculiar. The reason the floorboard on the stair was loose was because someone had fixed it to be that way. It wasn't to be permanently nailed into the staircase, but rather it seemed to have handmade grooves so that it was able to fasten itself to the other boards, but also be removed whenever desired.

This is peculiar, thought Lizelle. Everything in her life had a proper place and a necessary cause for efficiency in every which way. Her brow furrowed as she sat in an uncommon perplexity. Why would anyone want imperfection in something so ordinary as a wooden stairwell? Stairs are meant to lead you up and down. They serve the purpose of providing a common pathway from one room to the next, so why would anyone choose to alter the purpose for this piece of architecture? Lizelle placed both of her hands at the ends of the loose slat and carefully pried it from the stair.