andthelightsdontlie

A middle-aged man stepped into the elevator with me. He was holding a half-gallon of milk with his left fingers. Weirdo. His other arm barely held onto a stack of very loose papers. His suit was baggy and his shoes must’ve been borrowed from Bozo the Clown himself. He pressed the elevator button to floor nine. We looked at each other for a moment and looked away just as fast. I wasn’t wearing any lipstick. And the keys in my pocket jingled, which reminded me that I was tapping my foot again. The elevator door took its time to shut and I felt the seconds slipping away like a wet bar of soap. Please, no. The longer we’re both in this thing together, the more likely we are to speak words. I hadn’t even had coffee yet. And then, the man sighed. He waited about half a second before he mentioned how warm the day was compared to yesterday. I glanced reluctantly over to him and slit my lips apart. My head nodded involuntarily and my foot stopped tapping. I closed my eyes. Will this door shut already? The milk hanging from this guy’s pinky finger was just about to bug the shit out of me. I started breathing deeper and louder to indirectly inform him that my patience was left on the train that morning. However, this nuisance of a person kept trying to get me to open up and chat about the weather with him. Finally, the doors shut and the elevator elevated with a slight jolt. Thank the pulley-system gods. The man sighed after a few moments and then he asked me if I was also going to the ninth floor. Oh, what the shit! I forgot to press the button for my floor, which was two, and we were already beyond the second floor when I realized it. So I had to wait with this man, who was holding milk with his tiniest finger, and force myself to smile instead of speak. ‘Whoops’ was the only thing I could sound. I’m good at making sounds. And then he asked me which floor I needed. I said I needed to get off on two. He let out a light chuckle. His breath smelled like hash browns. My foot was tapping again. The milk-man joked about my slip up and said I’d be with him ’til nine. Nine whole floors. I should’ve hit any button just to get off that flying box. But instead, I stayed. I was growing more and more irritated. There was a stop on floor six. The doors, those shittily slow doors, cracked open like virgin legs. No one got on and I did not get off.  If God was real, he’s awful or has a wicked sense of humor. The man shifted the milk jug between his fingers. He said the sixth floor was haunted and then he laughed. It wasn’t haunted. And he knew it. Upon hearing him make this ridiculous statement, I had to look over to see his stupid face. Did he actually think he was funny, or was he just trying to make me speak to him? He looked me directly in my eyes and said that I must be having a rough morning. He did a little ‘eh’, too. My shoulders tensed up. Eight. The man adjusted his belongings and stood up straight. I took a step back to allow him to exit easily. Finally, the elevator doors opened the way they had been–slowly. The man stepped out, with his half-gallon of milk. He held the door open and turned to me. Just go, buddy. We began a staring contest. I would win this competition and steal his milk for victory. The man smiled wide. I was still in the lead with stale eyes and dead silence. But he started talking. He cleared his throat and suggested that I ought start taking the stairs more often.