Friday afternoon, in the crush of the elevator, 16th floor, wedged into the corner, I feel the warmth glowing off that girl from Audit’s body and the air around us bursts in my head with the heat and sweat of blatantly reminiscent proximity and recharged perfume.
Ms. Bevilacqua, yeah that’s her name, steps back and bumps her rump against my thigh and my neck tingles like the first time I’d gotten the courage to dance with Her, forty years ago. My heart kept clanging against nascent breasts at the touch of her fingers full of rings brushed against my bare neck. In uncool gasps, I inhaled the aroma of Her hair that night, my one line of conversation a choked, “Thank you. See ya Monday.” But, really, I saw Her staring at me from my bedroom ceiling for all the next three nights.
The elevator doors open and three more employees enter on 12, and Ms. Stacie Bevilacqua is pressed tighter to me now. I’m sure my face is as red as when I would linger with my head upside down “searching” for a book under my desk, but actually watching those to-me perfect legs hang from saddle shoes toe-tapping the floor, and hoping for a spoonful of thigh should She turn to her girlfriend in the seat behind Hers.
You think you forgot after all this time, until a certain bump, a brush of skin, an echo-whiff of might-be Charlie perfume opens the doors. There’s the old sinking feeling again…probably just eight more floors of elevator drop. So you open your eyes and Stacie is shyly smiling up at you. Funny, but the elevator doors are still open on 12, and you just can’t help but smile back and whisper, “Thank you. See ya Monday,” when she gets off on 3.