She holds the button down with one knuckle, three times, four, as if the box will hurry for the insulting. The number above the door does not change any faster. She sighs. She checks the glowing rectangle. She sighs again at the same box that will, in eleven seconds, open and carry her wherever she is late for.
Eleven seconds. I would give whatever I am for eleven seconds of that impatience, of somewhere to be and a body cross about getting there.
The doors part. She steps into the little humming room with a stranger and does the thing all the living do: turns to face the doors, folds inward, watches the numbers climb so she will not have to watch the man beside her. Two warm bodies, a handspan apart, breathing the same close warm air, and they have agreed to pretend they are alone. I used to do that too. I used to think the silence was mine to keep.
There is a mirror on the back wall. She does not look. She is checking the numbers, checking the phone, checking the door seam, checking everything but her own face lit gold in that little rising room, the small tired unrepeated face of a Tuesday afternoon. The floor lifts under her heels. She cannot feel how lovely it is to be lifted.
The bell sounds. Her floor. She is already moving before the doors finish opening, already gone, the warm space collapsing back to quiet behind her.
Go slowly, love. Stand a moment longer next time. Let the box take its time. Let the stranger crowd you.
Feel the floor come up to meet your feet, and be late, and be here.