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I don’t rise to the bait. She’s playing the mark, not me. I am just her means to an end.
I stare straight ahead, hyper-aware of everything. The gold, mirrored walls bounce our disheveled reflections back at us. Three women, standing side-by-side. One tall, two short. All beautiful. All taking the long road through life. The woman’s skin against mine is starting to sweat, and I can feel the hot squish of our flesh. The smell—booze, cigarettes, and the girl’s rancid breath—push my shame to an unbearable level.
I try to tell myself that I don’t care.
I try to stay proud.
But it is not easy.
On the tenth floor, a couple steps into the elevator with us. Although it’s nearing eleven, they are dressed to go out. Black tie. Expensive clothes.
The Husband, dressed in standard black and white, smiles politely. The Wife, fifteen years younger but feelingher age, doesn’t even glance our way. She moves to the opposite side of the elevator, nearer to the Handsome Stranger than us.
“Excuse me,” Lizzie purrs.
“Hello,” the Husband replies. I see the discomfort in his eyes. It is alive. It spills from him.
“May I borrow your phone quickly?” She runs a hand seductively down her body, clad in a tight, black mini dress. “No pockets.”
“Of course.” He fumbles around in his suit jacket before pulling out his cell phone and handing it to her. It’s one of those new ones—aMotorola Razr.
Lizzie gives him her best smile. “Oh, fancy,” she says, looking down at the phone. “And there’s signal in the elevator. Imagine that!”
The Husband just nods politely.
The Handsome Stranger stares at me, the right side of his mouth quirking. His arms are crossed over his chest, but the gesture is not aggressive. It’s casual, his entire body relaxed as he leans against the far side of the elevator.
The Wife has yet to acknowledge us. But her rigid spine tells me that she is very aware of everything we do.
Lizzie just punches the buttons and clears her throat before raising the cell phone to her ear. We are all silent as we descend, and I have the strangest thought that if this were the elevator to hell, we’d be getting off at different levels. The Husband first, the Wife next, Handsome Stranger after that, and Lizzie and me continuing down to some indeterminate level.
“Hello?” Lizzie’s voice cuts through the silence. “Yes. Yes. I was just at a party and, well, there’s no easy way to say this, but there was a dead girl in one of the rooms.”
Nobody in the elevator speaks.
The Wife’s head turns ninety degrees to stare at Lizzie, her mouth slack with shock. Lizzie raises her hand, kisses her fingers, and as she blows the kiss to the Wife, she leaves her middle finger standing.
“Yes, the Golden Laurel Penthouse Suite in the Mandarin Building.” She pauses as the operator says something, and then laughs as if delighted. “Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary.”
Lizzie hangs up the phone and hands it back to the Husband as the elevator opens on the ground floor. “Thanks, hun.” Before he has time to deflect, she leans forward and gives him a smacking kiss, leaving a bright red lipstick stain on his cheek.
We bolster against our burden and walk out of the elevator, leaving the stunned couple and the Handsome Stranger behind before any of them has the thought to stop us.
I don’t say anything.
I don’t reprimand.
What’s the point?
“Hey! Wait up!”
We don’t stop walking. But the Handsome Stranger catches us in a few long strides. “Are you sure I can’t help?”
He’s looking at me. But I don’t reply. Lizzie does. “Are you volunteering to carry this hot mess to the car?” She indicates to the girl. “Or, like, connect us with your friend at the women’s shelter?”
He glances over his shoulder, just once. But once is enough to remind us that the police will be on their way.
Lizzie snorts. “That’s what I thought.”
