I was still trying to pat out a few of the wrinkles on my jacket when the elevator doors opened to a reception area. “Hi,” I smiled and waved to the woman sitting behind the desk across the room. Somehow, without raising her eyebrow, the woman gave me the raised-eyebrow look.
The doors started to close but I fumbled my way out just before they shut completely. “Aren’t there supposed to be sensors on that thing?” I looked down at my jacket, acting surprised, “Now my suit’s all wrinkled!”
“Have a seat sir,” she added. And somehow, without rolling her eyes, she gave me the rolling-eyes look.
Just as I found my seat, the door across from me burst open and that familiar face stormed out. This time, however, her expression of quiet contempt had been replaced by teary eyes and flush cheeks. She performed an about face that would make any drill sergeant proud and spoke through clenched teeth, “Fuck. You.”
“Look, sister,” said her addressee who stood just out of sight, “All I’m trying to say here is that it would be a damn shame to see those fine legs go to waste.”
She turned her head and looked directly at me, this time with wide eyes that pleaded for help, and for the first time in my life I felt compelled to reach back and help her. But my life up to this point had largely revolved around me. So I did the best I knew how and looked everywhere except back into her eyes.
In my peripheral vision, though, I saw something break inside her. In the briefest moment she took in an abrupt gasp of air and then bit her lip. She turned back toward the man behind the door, swung her arm with a satisfying slap and stumbled past me and into the elevator, eyes fixated on the ground.
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