We both reached for the same floor button at the same time.
Our fingers nearly touched.
We did that awkward little laugh people do when they do not know what else to do, and she said, "Sorry."
I pulled my hand back. "No, you're fine."
She smiled, polite and quick, then pressed the button.
The doors closed.
For a few seconds, the elevator hummed upward in silence. I stared at the little numbers above the door. She looked at her phone. I tried not to compare my stretched sweater to her blazer.
Then the elevator made an awful grinding noise.
It jerked hard.
My stomach dropped as the whole box shuddered and stopped.
Then came the beeping.
Not a normal beep. Not the soft little alert sound of a machine doing its job. This was an angry, repeating, soul-destroying beep that filled the tiny space until it felt like it was inside my skull.
