The elevator jolts and I think, “Thank God!” I mean, at least we’ll be in the lobby before I can say anything else so blatantly stupid, desperate, transparent and pathetic!
Why don’t I just drool on the poor guy while I’m at it?
Jesus, he probably thinks I’m some total desperate dweeb, coming on to him like that in the stalled elevator. It’s like the opening scene of some sexy smut novel, not that I’ve ever read any of those, mind you.
“Wow,” he says as I reach down for my bag. “That… Phil sure works quick.”
I look up at him, sliding a lock of hair behind my ear even though I’m sure it’s blushing. “Usually he takes a little longer,” I say, and I can’t help but hear the disappointment in my voice. If he notices, he doesn’t say. Or maybe he doesn’t care. He’s kind of inching toward the door already and I’m sure he can’t wait to get rid of me.
Who can blame him? First I go and call him unemployed and, as if that weren’t enough, then I go and tell him he’s straight up perfect! Mixed messages, anyone? I’m about as good at this as a third grade girl tripping the object of her affections on the playground!
15 floors to go and I just want to say something, something cool and calm and not so dopey, to at least leave him with a lasting impression, but I can’t think of anything.
If only I hadn’t had that oversized mug of jasmine tea before I got on the elevator. I have to go so bad I’m afraid I won’t even be able to make it to the end of the lobby where the restrooms are.
As much as I want to stay in the car and flirt with Barry, I’m not sure what he’d think about me asking to use his messenger bag as a port-a-potty.
“I hope…” he begins, clutching the strap of his bag. “I hope your Valentine’s Day line goes well.”
I smile, because… what guy would remember that from ten minutes ago? “Thanks,” I gush, a little too gushily. “Good luck with the interview.”
He slumps his head a little, like maybe he thinks he’s already lost it. “Yeah,” he mutters, turning toward the door like he can’t wait to sprint out. “Thanks.”
I inch closer, five floors left now, the last night of the old year and nothing to lose. Reaching out, gently, so as not to shock him, I put a hand on his shoulder.
He tenses, but doesn’t flinch. Turning to me, our eyes meet. “And good luck with next year,” I say. “I… I hope it’s better than this one sounds?”
He turns a little more, so that we’re nearly eye to eye, and opens his mouth to say something. Just then the doors open and Phil is standing there, hands on his hips, security guard hat crooked, gun belt crooked, smile crooked. Behind him are a row of lighted Christmas trees, which have been up ever since we got back to work from Thanksgiving weekend.
“You two okay?” he asks and Barry reaches for the door, holding it open for me.
“Good as can be,” I mutter before looking back at Barry one last time. He’s followed me out into the lobby, standing there next to Phil, hiking up his jacket collar against the snow outside. “Thanks, Phil!” I call, waving coyly to Barry but he’s distracted by something and I see him pull the phone out of his messenger bag again.
Then I turn, scooting down the lobby, past the giant blinking wreath on the reception wall and into the ladies room, where I sit for far too long after handling my jasmine tea business.
I shake my head and murmur and then stand, heart fluttering, thinking maybe Barry is waiting for me. You know? You spend twelve minutes in an elevator with someone on New Year’s Eve, he tells you he’s had a rough year, blurts something out about his lousy love life, guy probably wants to keep the moment going, huh?
Maybe?
I quick wash my hands, check my hair in the mirror, freshen up my lips and stutter step back out into the lobby, finding it deserted. Of course. Because it’s New Year’s Eve and I’m Darby Sylvester and that’s how I roll.
Besides, love at first sight only happens in fairy tales anyway.
Right?
I hurry past the reception desk, calling “Happy New Year’s” to Phil but he’s back on the phone, waving me goodbye and muttering something about “low water pressure” in the executive lounge upstairs.
It’s dark out now, glistening with the lighted trees that front the Hanover Building and all up and down State Street. I look left, hoping Barry might be lingering, waiting for a cab or, possibly… just waiting for me. But he’s not left, he’s not right and what the hell am I thinking, anyway?
It’s New Year’s Eve and the guy’s a stone cold hunk. No doubt he was making booty calls when he got on the elevator, was polite enough to stay off the phone while we were stuck and, the minute he got into the lobby, probably had three hot offers waiting for him.
I sigh and turn toward the bus stop on the corner, winding the scarf my Mom sent me for Christmas around my neck and slipping on the matching gloves from my valise. It’s cold but not freezing, and the light dusting of snow just adds to my melancholy mood.
At least the bus stop is deserted this time of night, so I can sit until the 8:45 bus comes around. I open my bag and reach for my own phone, finding three texts waiting for me. One from Mom, wishing me “Happy New Year” from the homestead back in Minnesota, one from Dad wishing me a slightly more rushed, hence abbreviated, “Hppy New Yr” text from his business trip abroad and another from my ex roommate, who’s moved in with her boyfriend after dating for five years.
I sigh, write them back with my most cheery replies, keeping up my whole false “Sex and the City” font, and then slide the phone back into my bag, slumping against the bench from the effort.
Across the street is a row of shops which are pretty much closed every night, every weekend and every holiday, and always shuttered by the time I get off from work.
One is a florist where lighted trees and wreaths glitter and a holiday display of champagne glasses and confetti and noisemakers sits front and center, marking the holiday and reminding me of what an epic, monumental loser I am.
I close my eyes and picture Barry, his close cropped hair and lean build, imagining who he’ll wind up with tonight. How they’ll kiss at midnight, faces flushed from champagne, music blaring, confetti and balloons falling, and if he’ll ever even think of me again.
I hear gears grinding and look up to see headlights ease onto State Street, standing and pulling my ski cap down a little lower against the growing chill. The bus pulls to a stop and I step up, my monthly card ready, but the driver is new and doesn’t smile.
I slide it in the slot, hear the familiar beep and grin. “Happy New Year’s,” I say before sliding down a few rows back on the empty bus.
“What’s so happy about it?” he grumbles, lunging into gear so that I’m rocked back in my seat as we pull away from the cold, snowy curb.
“Indeed,” I murmur, watching downtown whizz by in a blur of snowflakes and Christmas lights and empty buildings. My stop isn’t that far, and with little traffic and the holiday driver’s lead foot I’m there in record time.
The giant bus wheezes to a stop and I stand, inching up the aisle. The driver turns, watching me. He’s in his late 50s, maybe early 60s, gray hair under his cap, little belly above his belt.
“Sorry about earlier, Miss,” he says, doffing his cap and nodding toward me. “Long day, you know?”
“Long year,” I grin, echoing Barry on the elevator. But it hasn’t been, not really. In fact, up until I met “Elevator Boy,” my year had been going plenty okay. I was fine with my quiet, solitary little life. More than fine, actually.
Happy, even.
Then, ten minutes staring at his brown eyes and wondering what it might be like to loosen his skinny black tie and, poof, just like that… game over.
The driver chuckles and says, “That too.” Then he puts his hat back on and I get off and he shuts the door and drives away.
I sigh, my street cold and dark as I walk two blocks up to the Manor Arms, where I’ve lived ever since moving to Snowflake five years earli
er. The front stoop is dark, the landlord having taken down all the lights pretty much the day after Christmas.
The lobby is warm, though, and still has the skinny little tree by the mailboxes. I don’t check mine, because all the Christmas cards have come in and all that’s going to be in there is bills and they can wait, literally now, until next year.
Instead I walk up the steps and open my door and find the first chair I can sit on and cry until there’s nothing left.
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Elevator Music: A Romantic Holiday Story Page 3