Caught in an Elevator

 

Caught in an Elevator
(Micro-fiction)

The door closed to the elevator at the conference hotel. Alone at last. She was a cute co-ed with a trim waist, shoulder-length brown hair, and freckles that ran across her nose and cheeks. She smelled like the south—soft and sweet.

They had run with a crowd for the past three days, but whenever he spoke, she looked at him with wide, interested eyes. Where you from? Alabama. What’s your major? History. How many brothers and sisters? Only child. Any hobbies? Boys. She giggled—then gave his shoulder an affectionate squeeze.

He glanced at his blurred complexion in the stainless-steel elevator door. A lock of his hair hid the pimple on his forehead. A smear of Clearasil dusted his chin. He smiled. Still good.

For two nights he had dreamt of her kiss and what it would be like to be kissed in return—the minty taste of her breath, her full lips pressed against his, her reluctance to part.

Footsteps in the hallway. Quick. Punch L.

It was a short ride—only three floors. The elevator dropped, sending his stomach to his throat.

Moments later the door opened. She quickly turned left. He reluctantly turned right.

He rubbed his right cheek. She must be a lefty.

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