Just when you thought you kissed dating good bye and then you confront a painful fact that you simply can’t kiss dating good bye because you are an overzealous twenty-something who easily falls prey to your hormones, raging at that, no matter how hard you try to be celibate or to feign asexualism.
I arrived home late this evening and was greeted by the eerie silence in the condominium lobby. Great I thought. When I turned left to the area assigned for the elevators, there are four Otis-type boxes but only two are working, I saw a shadow, let’s call the owner of it A.
A was doing something, probably it was inspecting its reflection in the big mirror that covers the entire wall, marveling at its body, confirming whether the opinion it has of its aesthetic make up is true. Seeing me, as is normal, it blushed a bit and tried to act as if gazing at one’s self in the mirror in that very absurd position is natural. Witnessing such grotesque spectacle, I felt ashamed for A. But there were only the two of so the situation was not as awkward as it would have been had A been doing that on a normal rush hour. But of course it wouldn’t have made such a scene during a time when all the soul in our building are rushing to their work.
I went inside the elevator and pressed the number for my floor; it followed after me.
Mine is 11; it pressed five. There was silence. There was occasional looking at each other’s eyes. No, gazing is better. The elevator opened. It has no plan to get off. The door closed. I know that movie scenes of two people having sex inside an elevator are a bogus. How can you do all those steamy acts in front of a CCTV? So I did what was best for both A and me.
“My name’s —. Are you alone?” A asked.
“I’m with people. I’m John.”
The doors opened. It almost stopped me from alighting.
“See you around,” my way of saying good bye. For now.
The doors of the elevator closed.