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I have a meeting right about this minute, and that’s what I am more concerned about.
As I walk into the elevator, the soft chime of the closing doors echoes through the building’s sleek and modern lobby.
I glance at the illuminated floor buttons and reach out to press my destination. The elevator, with its mirrored walls, creates a sense of intimacy and self-reflection as it begins its ascent.
Just as I settle in for a brief ride, I hear the footsteps of someone approaching. Turning slightly, you can imagine my surprise to see Carissa hurrying to catch the same elevator.
The black body con dress she has on makes it difficult for her to achieve longer strides. I spot the nude-colored Chloé bag that I got her on her left hand, which also matches her shoes.
As soon as she sees me, a warm smile appears on her face, revealing perfectly shaped teeth.
I hold the door for her, and as she steps in, our eyes stay glued to one another.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” she starts as the doors close. “I was actually calling to let you know I was held up in traffic.”
“So, that was you?” I ask, not taking my eyes off her. “It's okay. Let's hope our clients are patient enough and haven’t already gone.”
As the elevator continues its journey upwards, reaching the midway point between floors, a sudden jolt and a series of unsettling mechanical noises fill the small compartment.
Carissa lets out a loud scream, dropping her bag. I rush to her and hold her still.
The elevator has stopped abruptly, and the soft hum of its movement has been replaced by an eerie silence, broken only by the faint sound of our shallow breathing.
Carissa and I exchange nervous glances, our expressions transitioning from surprise to apprehension.
It feels as though time has come to a standstill, and the dim overhead lights flicker before settling into an ominous, muted glow.
Carissa, who has tried to maintain a brave front, can't hide her escalating fear any longer. Her eyes widen and she wraps her hands tighter around me, her knuckles turning white.
She looks up at me with a mixture of fear and vulnerability.
Realizing her fear, I try to reassure her. “It's okay. I’m sure they’ll have us out in no time.”
My words are intended to provide comfort as I stroke her hair, but the uncertainty in my voice mirrors her own apprehension.
Carissa nods, but her breathing quickens as she tries to steady herself. Her fear is undeniable. She sniffles.
“Do you want to hear a story?” I ask in a bid to distract her from our current predicament.
She nods again.
“I suck at this,” I groan. “I don't know any bedtime or fiction stories to tell. I was hoping you would say no.”
She laughs and sniffles at the same time, and I join in, happy to be able to make her laugh despite our situation.
“But tell you what? I do know some real events you might find interesting,” I continue in an attempt to keep the conversation going.
“Like what?” she asks.
“You know Mark from finance? There was a time he couldn't stop farting and blaming it on everyone else at the office,”
“What?” Carissa laughs.
“Yes. I heard the others complaining until one day he did it right in my office, and I waited to see how he would dare point fingers at me. Guess what?” I continue.
“He did?”
“That was the first time he admitted to farting in the office,” I reply.
