The elevator story

A story about a Boston high rise condo owner and the wrong floor

I guess we’re both creatures of habit. I’m usually the first one in the elevator at precisely five minutes before eight, and you always show up about a minute later, the last one in before the doors close in this Boston midtown high rise condo.

At that time, the elevator is always crowded. I don’t think you ever saw me, but I sure saw you. You always stepped in, then turned around right away, tucked in middle of a crowded elevator.

Sometimes I had to move a little, if I could, to see you. When I couldn’t move, I’d crane my neck or stand on my toes to get a better look.

It was certainly worth the effort. Seeing you was the highlight of my morning. Your flowing, chestnut hair. Your lean but curvy build. Your toned legs.

And your dresses. A new one every day. You look great in all of them, but the white, linen, sleeveless one was my favorite.

You always exited before me, and rapidly passed the concierge as you exited midtown high rise lobby.

In the evenings, we would always come home at different times.

But than one Thursday night, we’re both in the elevator at the same time. However, the very idea of being that close to you, while thrilling, made me too nervous.

I thought I could get you to notice me. I started wearing new clothes. I even bought a new sports jacket. But you never looked my way.

On this particular Thursday evening, we’re in the elevator together, with other condo residents. When you asked someone to press the 5th floor button.

I decided I would also get off the 5th floor as well, even though my condominium was located the 9th floor. I imagined you holding the door and me thanking you as we introduce ourselves.

But I was getting ahead of myself. First, I’d have to get out on 5th floor.

“Excuse me,” I said as we slowed down for the 5th floor. Your floor.

I watched the doors open and saw you get out. I tried to gently push my way forward, but the car was packed that evening, and it was hard for people to move.

The doors began to close.

“Could someone hold the door?” I called out.

But no one came to my assistance.

Then I saw a hand reach in from outside the elevator, and the doors snapped back open. A slender, lovely hand with red fingernails. I knew it was yours. You’d come back for me.

As the doors opened, there you were, looking even more beautiful from the front. You smiled at me. Your teeth were perfect.

Your left hand was still on the edge of the door as you pushed it fully open.

I looked into your eyes. They were blue.

“Sorry,” I said, turning around. “Wrong floor.”