Elevator to Floor 23

She is in stiletto heels, black, satin, each with a strap around her ankle and a strap around her toes. Her ankles tremble and the shoes wobble. The bottom hem of her dress reaches the ankle straps. The dress, too, is black and satin. Her neckline cuts a deep V, revealing pale cleavage sparkling with sweat. A single pearl on a thin chain rests against her chest which heaves with sharp breaths. She steps into the elevator and jabs the close-door button, then the keypad for the top floor, with a long black nail. Floor 23, but there’s no floor 13, so really it’s floor 22. The elevator dings, a single elongated high-pitched chime. The doors clank shut, halting and grinding. 

She glances a circle around the elevator. It is empty except for her. She exhales and slides a palm against her cheek, smudging her eyeliner, turning her fingertips black like her nails.

There are four overhead lights: two are dark, one is flickering, and one is beaming blue-white fluorescence. The flickering light clicks, clicks, clicks. The small space is even more humid than the rest of the building. Strands loose from her bun stick to her neck. They form fraying curlicues. Under her armpit, black thread dangles loose from its stitches. It frays in curlicues. Her chest swells and deflates less frequently and less deeply but does not stop entirely. The black of the satin hides the patterns of sweat stains, but the fabric clings in the sweatiest spots of her back, armpits, and beneath her chest. The elevator clunks upwards. The red LED sign fizzles into a new number every thirty seconds or so.

Her right index finger has a massive chip in its polish, a jagged triangle revealing damaged nail beneath. Her left index finger worries at it, widening the revealed surface area. 

At floor 12, he enters in business casual, a dark navy polo with two cream buttons, both undone. His khakis are wrinkle-free. His hair has a gel cast. He gives her a once over. She does not make eye contact.

“How’s your mother?” he asks. 

He reaches toward the keypad. The sole number 23 is already lit up, a hazy warm light. His arm falls back into place by his side. He rubs a hand against his chin and throat. He smells of musky aftershave. The elevator smells of metal and sweat.

“She called me last night,” he says.

The doors clank shut, halting and grinding. The elevator clunks upward.

“She said that you hadn’t visited yet. She asked if I would,” he says.

The red lights readjust, pixels popping in and out of focus. Floor 14.

“I didn’t realize you were invited tonight. You look nice,” he says.

The elevator bounces up then down for a moment, then stabilizes as it proceeds.

“I’ve missed you,” he says. He looks at her face, then her body, then her face. He blinks rapidly. She blinks slowly, sparingly. She is not looking at him. Her right index finger has more bare nail than black polish now. Her posture is straight and still. Her chest does not move. Her chin is raised high. Floor 17, floor 18, floor 19. 

“How’s the new apartment?” he says. He wears a gold band on his left ring finger. It has been polished until sparkling. She wears delicate silver wire, wrapped into leaves and branches, on her right index finger. She does not wear any other rings. 

She curves her lips into a tight, thin smile. There is no hint of teeth. Her lipstick is a vivid red; it outlines her cupid bow in two neat triangles. Floor 20, floor 21. 

“Can you at least look at me?”

Floor 22, floor 23. The doors clank open, halting and grinding. She steps out of the elevator and does not look behind her as she strides forward.