Lift

My heart stopped on the thirteenth floor. She stood, framed in our history by the open doors.

"Chilly out," she said. "So . . . how are you?"

"Going . . . down?" I inquired.

"'One,' for me," she said.

Memories descended silently through successive floors. I'm leaving, she'd announced, washing dishes. I always dried. I wasn't sufficiently attentive to glassware rims where lips touch.

"I don't blame you," I said presently. "People excel at leaving. I'd leave me too, if . . . ." We stopped.

"Safe journey, then" she said airily, floating away. I pushed 'Door Close,' savoring the insular motionlessness momentarily before pressing my floor.