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"I've only been once, in the summer. I usually vacation in cold weather. The heat drives me crazy, but I had the trip booked already, so I decided to go anyway." I hope making small talk will pull her out of her panic.
She just stares at me for a minute, her eyes clearing. "If you hate it, why did you book a trip?"
I wait for the bristle that comes whenever anyone asks why I made that trip. It's a benign question, an obvious follow up when I say I’ve been. But the bristle doesn’t come, and I find that telling her the truth is easy.
"My fiancée loved the heat. It was supposed to be our honeymoon. But she died. So, I went by myself." I can hear how cold and distant I sound.
She gasps. "Oh. I'm so...sorry," she says. The uncertainty of her condolence tells me she's confused by my blunt, emotionless statement which is completely at odds with the words I spoke. I'm only glad she's no longer looking at me like she thinks I might be Jack t
he Ripper. I look down at my hands for a moment, my ring-less finger a reminder that I should be married by now. That I'd probably be here with my wife if she hadn’t died.
I know I should feel guilty for not being sad. I know I should at least pretend to feel something for the memory of the woman I'd been preparing to spend the rest of my life with. But I can't.
I realize I've let myself get lost in my thoughts when her movement makes me look up. She's joined me on the floor, and she is leaning forward, her long, shapely legs crossed at the ankles and her clasped hands resting on her knees as she watches me, her leonine eyes now keenly trained on me. She’s calm, focused, thinking.
The tables have turned. She seems to be in complete control of her senses again. I, on the other hand, become aware of how small this elevator is. I chafe under her scrutiny; my hands feel uncomfortably clammy, and I feign a sudden interest in the walls of our confine and look away from her knowing gaze.
"This was recent, right? Her death?" she asks quietly.
I don't respond. The elevator will start moving soon, and I can get away from this woman and this conversation. This is what I get for trying to be nice.
"You're still very hurt by it. I'm sorry. I really am." Something in her tone, is so soothing and kind that it annoys me. I don't want her pity. I don't deserve it.
"I'm not hurt by it. You don't know a thing about it. You don't need to be sorry." I glance at my watch. "Listen, I only started talking to stop you from freaking out. I am not really interested in having this conversation."
She doesn't respond. I glance back at her. She is still watching me with those suddenly canny eyes. She seems completely unfazed by my brush-off.
"Oh, okay," she says with a dry laugh and breaks our eye contact.
"What?" I say, moving my head to capture her eyes again, but she looks down, avoiding my probe.
"You want me to be honest, but you can't be?" she says.
"I'm being honest,” I insist. “It’s an ugly truth, and some days I think there's something very wrong with me because I'm not sad. I was, but I'm not anymore, and I haven't been for a long time."
"I envy you," she says softly and then lifts her eyes to me.
And what I see there - the naked pain - makes my heart plummet, and I pull her back into my arms.
"I'm so sorry. That you’re still sad," I say. I don't know what's hurt her, but I know my platitudes aren't adequate. Yet, they’re all I have to offer. She lets me hold her, presses her face into my shoulder and rubs her cheek against the fabric of my shirt. I can feel the heat of her breath with each exhalation and the simultaneous fall of her chest.
"I'm used to it," she says suddenly, her voice clear and strong even though her face is still buried in my shoulder. I trail my fingers down her spine. I let my hands splay in the small of her back and pull her closer. She doesn't even seem to notice as she snuggles into me. She's lost in thought.
"I don't believe in fate," she says slowly. "We're strangers. Virtually. For whatever reason, fate, coincidence, bad luck, we met. We're stuck in this elevator together, and even though I was scared at first, I know you won't...I know I'm safe with you."
"Tell me your story." Who made you feel unsafe? I want to ask that, too, but I know it would be pushing. She lifts her head from my shoulder, and I can feel her looking at me, but I keep my eyes on the doors of the elevator. I'm afraid to break the spell of companionship we've somehow managed to cast.
"I will, and I want you to tell me yours, too. But we need conditions first," she says as if we're bartering.
"Conditions?" I say warily, not understanding why.
"Yes, conditions. That will make both of us feel safe about sharing."
I look at her sideways. "What, so we're going to confess our deepest secrets? Tell each other everything and then take it to our graves?”
"Something like that." She shrugs nonchalantly, but she wets her lips and her fingers wrestle with each other.
I'm not sure about this, but I want to know what's put those shadows in her eyes. I glance around the elevator and mimic her shoulder shrug.
