My appointment was 2:30 PM. I was sure of it. I had checked the text messages twice to make sure before I even departed my apartment. I sprinted up Sansome Street, going full speed when the lights turned green and moving as efficient as possible to Montgomery Street. I reminded myself that I will have to take the time later to seriously consider if this location was worth it.

Outside the building, I pressed the # button to get to the directory. I punched in the number, unsure if I did it right and hoped that the “system is dialing” meant that something was happening. I tried to focus on the sound spilling out of the metal speaker, hoping that I could hear both the dial tone and the door unlocking at the same time in the midst of the street noise. Anxiety hurtle through my chest. Last time, did I announce myself? Didn’t she just let me in and I didn’t have to say a single word at all?

Her voice began speaking, and I was puzzled. I started saying my name, but I thought that it was silly. I was here for my appointment and really, who listens to their voicemail anyway? So I pressed the star button and hung up. I checked the directory and dialed the number again. It rang and rang. Suddenly behind me, a woman opened the door, leaving the building. “Oh!” I said and quickly hit the star button.

It was 2:31 PM already and I felt late. So I ran to the elevator, pounding the call button. It arrived slowly in 30 seconds and I climbed it, slamming the 4th floor. It felt like a snail moving through the building. Then the doors opened and I walked down the hallway that I had visited a few months earlier. Outside her door, I heard voices. So I patiently waited, checking my phone to make sure it was on silent. I sat down on the steps and wondered what to do.

But then it dawned on me after 10 minutes that my appointment time was incorrect. I checked my text messages again. She had said, “2:30 pm”. I thought to knock on the door, but I couldn’t do it. I was admonished by a nearby practitioner for thinking such things. So I paced up and down the hallway. I was here and could figure out the misschedule right now instead of resorting to an abnormal communication. But I felt the invisible force shield as my hand reached for the door.

If only I could not hear the voices, would I behave differently? Would I consider this whole space to be mine? I couldn’t do it. Instead, my fingers touched the door and absorbed the voices. I texted, “Am I supposed to be scheduled at 2:30 pm?”

I texted Chris to ask what I should do even though I already knew what I was comfortable doing. He texted back saying, “Knock softly.”

I raised my hand and just could not. I thought about all the times that I couldn’t do something that I thought that I should do. The time in college when I wanted to join a club and got to the door one minute late and was panicking in the worst way possible, never making it inside. The time that I was 20 minutes late to a blood donation center and completely flaked out on my appointment (only time in my life ever, I swear and they never contacted me again). But the funny thing is that I clearly remember pushing myself to go some places in despite being uncomfortable and late, and I don’t remember what they were.

So I stood outside the door for 30 minutes wondering what to do. I sent another text message, thinking that I had fulfilled my duty of acknowledging my presence. I lifted my arm and made a soft barely audible knock. One that I couldn’t even hear myself. In seconds, I received a text message confirming my hypothesis. So I took a deep breath and went down the elevator. Out back on Columbus Avenue, swinging down to Kearney stopping to get an expensive Sea Salt Creme Oolong Tea with Milk Pudding in the Financial District. The rain poured then, dripping all over me since I opted not to bring an umbrella. I looked down the sidewalk, letting my hood shield my head and breathed in the air.