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“I need to get going. I have a thing to do. An appointment. Please excuse me,” I say, trying to get around him. I am a blabbering mess. What is it about this man that damned my confidence to hell?
His stare penetrates my fuzzy thoughts. He looks less temperamental today. More carefree.
“I think you’re confused,” he says.
“Huh?”
“This is the seventh floor.” A smirk of friendliness finally appears on his supple, soft-looking lips. I watch—stone-faced—as a hand leaves my arm to abruptly stop the elevator door from closing on my body. “I’m assuming that you are looking for a different floor? Perhaps the third?”
I narrow my eyes, trying to harness all of my concentration.
“How do you know?”
He chuckles. “Because you are looking a little pale. Afraid of needles?”
I nod and then quickly shake my head. I can’t seem to get my mind caught up with the time zone.
He hunches down to tie his shoes, while stopping the door from closing a second time. Except, they are perfectly laced, symmetrical in form.
I stare in confusion as his hands right my half-empty purse. He slides a few of my stray folded bills inside, then starts to push loose items into a pile.
“Fuck,” I moan almost incoherently, my mind reeling in a flutter. I didn’t even realize that the thing exploded. How humiliating.
I swear I hear him utter something about my mouth, and I hear the whisper of the word “dirty.” I shake my head at the picture-worthy scene at my feet.
Mints, hand sanitizer, a bottle of ibuprofen, a note pad, a pen, packages of gum, fabric boob tape, stain wipes, a hair clip, sewing kit, and my cell phone find refuge on the carpeting outside the confines of the elevator. I frantically scan the area again, half expecting to see a purple vibrator and some lube hanging out in the wreckage. Every other personal item seems to be here.
I slump down to my knees, ignoring the pulling of my sweater dress material. My trembling fingers race to grasp my tampon before Graham realizes what it is. It doesn’t matter what new neon colors the factory puts on the wrapper, it still freaks out grown men and makes them thank God for being born with a pair of balls instead of a pair of ovaries.
The scent of coconut now permeates the small space from a travel size bottle of body spray that rolled along the edge of the elevator car.
“Here,” he whispers softly, handing me a disheveled stack of semi-bent photographs.
I look up at Graham and watch as he unwraps one of my leftover chocolates. He places the Hershey’s Kiss on his tongue and closes his mouth. The man keeps stealing my candy.
“Taking an impromptu snack break?”
“I got hungry.” His words are simple but harbor more meaning than their face value.
He unwraps another one and rests it on my bottom lip. I open my mouth, and my teeth grab it and suck it inside. He holds out his palm, and I collect the little balls of foil.
I sigh over the smell of cocoa and sit back on my heels and let out what I had been containing for days. Laughter. A full-blown church-giggle fest. I laugh so hard I sound like I am crying like a demented clown. The imagery just makes me laugh even harder. This whole scene is too much for me to handle.
I can’t look Graham in the eyes if I want to have any hope of stopping before the tears come. “I”—gasp—“am”—gasp—“sorry.” It is all I can muster up. Tears wash my eyes at the sudden emotional break. “So, sorry,” I exhale through giggles.
He joins me in the craziness and laughs. “Sorry? For what exactly?” Clearly he is amused.
I can feel his eyes bore into me, as I try to hide mine in a mop of hair. My teeth bite down on my tongue, bringing pain. A purposeful action to stop the freak show. “I don’t know,” I admit absently. “Everything? For hurting you with my”—I try to think of the body part—“head?”
He fake scoffs and continues to chuckle. From his weird expression, I take it he doesn’t laugh often. But I can’t figure out any better way to respond than to just laugh at myself and ease the tension that I have been holding inside with a little humor.
When I am finally able to look up from my unraveling, his lips curl up, bewilderment evident. He hands me my pepper spray bottle and three fully wrapped chocolates. Two are raspberry filled, one is caramel filled.
“You might need it after the day is through,” he suggests, standing with graceful fluidity. He leans down and pulls me swiftly to my feet. I yelp from the shock of his strength.
“The chocolates or the pepper spray?” I ask, watching him place items into my purse.
“Plan for the latter, hope for the former?”
