This morning I witnessed a rare spectacle: my beloved falling down a flight of stairs. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…,” I heard myself as I dashed from the apartment door to the bedroom to fetch my pants. When I ran out again, she was still lying on the landing one floor below. As we were saying goodbye and sending kisses to each other, which we do every morning when she leaves for work, she bundled up and me stark naked, she slipped on the top stair and fell. I saw her rolling down the stairs, her eyes closed shut in horror. How fast she went! How powerless I felt! When I brought her up and lied her down on a sofa, she was both sobbing from pain and giggling in disbelief. A while later we stripped her and inspected all her bruises, but none looked worrisome. Protected by her heavy coat, a soft briefcase full of papers, and a large garbage bag she was taking to the bin in front of the building, she was not in such a bad shape. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…,” I can still hear myself a few hours later. And in English, my panic tongue.