“Great food, no atmosphere.” He gives me a little wink.
My chin drops. “Wow, that was bad,” I say.
“Why couldn’t the bicycle stand up by itself?” he continues, unfazed.
I’ve heard this one before.
“It was two tired,” he says before I can recall the answer.
“Oh my gosh, you are not telling me dad jokes.” I glower at him.
He laughs, his head tipping back as he does. He’s got one of those contagious laughs. Under different circumstances I would probably join him. Not because of the jokes, mind you.
“How do you tell if a joke is a dad joke?” he asks.
“Because it’s super cheesy?”
“No, because it’s apparent.”
“Oh gosh, I walked right into that one.”
“You really did,” he says. “I could tell you more.”
“Please don’t,” I say, my lips moving to smile without even consulting with me first. Traitors.
“Next!” a woman yells, and I look up to see that we’ve made it to the front of the line.
“You ready?” Jay asks, motioning for me to look at the opened elevator waiting for us.
“How—”
“Next!” the woman yells again.
“Shall we?” He puts his hand on the small of my back and guides me through the elevator doors. I hadn’t even realized that we’d moved up in the line; he’d kept me occupied with his dumb jokes.
“Thank you,” I say as we enter.
“You’re welcome,” he says, and then, noticing that his hand is still on my back, he removes it. The spot feels instantly cold. He’s crossed so many of my personal boundaries, and yet what bothers me is that it doesn’t bother me. I’m kind of a disaster in my head—for so many reasons.
A man in a red vest enters the elevator after about ten of us have filed in, and once the doors close, he slides a metal grate across.
“What the—” I mutter under my breath.
“This elevator has an attendant,” Jay half whispers to me. “I read about it online.”
“Why are they double locking us in this box?” I ask, wondering if they have to take extra precautions because we’re going so high up. I really wish I could turn back now. Would it be awkward to scream until they opened the doors and let me out? Probably.
“Okay, next stop is floor one-oh-two,” the attendant says, like he’s done this a million times. Actually, he probably has. “Over to your left”—he points to the left of the doors—“shows how many feet up we’ll be. One thousand two hundred fifty feet.”
My gulp is audible. I know because most eyes in the small space turn toward me.
The attendant starts telling us more about the elevator and something about meters. I can’t even concentrate. The world around me—well, the box—feels like it’s spinning.
“What’s the best thing about elevator jokes?” Jay leans down and whispers in my ear.
I’m basically holding my breath at this point, so I can’t say anything. I just shake my head.
“They work on so many levels.”
