No one actually looks at anyone else. Most look down, a few at the lighted numbers above the closed elevator doors.

It’s now on 5.

It’s now on 4.

It’s now on 3.

Like waiting for the tea kettle to boil. Or for the paint to dry.

Oliver straightened his tie. He could see a cloudy reflection in the high gloss Carrara marble walls.
Who could ever love him? Fifty five, short, fat, balding. Not bald but bald…..ding.  Funny glasses.
That darn girl who sold him the glasses said they looked “tight”, whatever that means.
The only thing tight was the knot in his stomach he got thinking about another day of doing corporate tax returns at Dewey, Smith, Smith and Dewey.




It’s her. Oh my God. Oh my God. I thought she quit.
Their eyes met for a nanosecond and then she too looked down. But it was there: the connection, the magic.
The elevator dinged and the crowd, like a herd of cows, staggered in. And then he heard her say his name.


The sound of her saying Oliver. The sound of the last thirty two measures of Stravinsky’s Firebird Suite or the 1812 Overture. Such a sound. Such a voice.
"Five please" the pizza guy said. "Twelve" barked the bike messenger with the Kryptonite biking shorts. The doors closed. Oliver took a breath and though he felt a little shaky he turned. “What floor, Miss”? Their eyes met again, this time the gaze held. “Thirteen” she said. Oliver gasped.  “Umm, there is no thirteen Miss”.
She giggled. 
"Well then. May I come up to twenty one”?

TWENTY ONE         OH MY GOD         TWENTY ONE         THAT’S MY FLOOR!!!!

The lounge. The lounge no one ever uses. With the door that locks and the Venetian blinds that can be drawn. He tried to be cool. Then she said something so softly he almost didn’t hear it.

“I’m feeling naughty”.