Finally he placed his hands on his narrow hips and lifted his chin toward my desk; his deep voice gravelly, just above whisper quiet, “Need help?”
I shook my head, feeling like a natural disaster on mute. I knew he wasn’t there to actually help me. He was there to help me out of the building. I huffed, spurning his offer. I was determined to get my walk of shame over. I turned, pushing my black rimmed glasses up my lightly freckled nose, and closed the short distance to my desk; the loaned flip flops made a smacking sound against the bottom of my feet with each hurried step. Smack, smack, smack.
All my belongings were packed in a brown and white file box. Members of the human resources department did it while I was told to wait in a conference room then excused to use the restroom facilities. I glanced at the empty desk. I noted where my pencil cup had once been; there was a clean patch of circle surrounded by a ring of dust. I wondered if they let me keep the pencils or if they removed them from the cup before packing it into the box.
Shaking my head to clear it of my ridiculous, pointless pondering, I picked up the box which- unbelievably- held the last two years of my professional aspirations and walked calmly past McHotpants, avoiding his gaze, to the reception desk and the elevators beyond. I knew he was following me even before he stopped next to me, close enough that his elbow slightly grazed mine as I tucked the box against my hip.
I held it with one arm while I jabbed a finger at the call button. I thought I could feel his attention on my profile but I made no attempt to meet it. Instead, I watched the boxes with red numbers announcing the floor status of each elevator.
“Do you want me to carry that?” His gravelly almost whisper sounded from my right.
I shook my head, slid my eyes to the side without turning; there were about four other people waiting for the elevator besides us.
“No, thank you. It’s not heavy; they must’ve taken the pencils.” I was relieved by the flat, toneless sound of my voice.
Several silent moments ticked by giving my brain dangerous unleashed time to wander; my ability to focus was waning. This was a frequent problem for me. Time with my thoughts, especially when I’m anxious, doesn’t work to my advantage.
Most people in stressful situations, I’ve been told, have the tendency to obsess about their current circumstances, how they arrived at their present fate, what they could do to avoid it or situations like it in the future. However, the more stressful my situation the less I think about it or anything related to it.
At present, I thought about how the elevators were like mechanical horses and wondered if anyone loved them or named them. I thought about what steps I could take to remove the word ‘moisture’ or even ‘moist’ from the English language; I really hated the way it sounded and always went out of my way to avoid saying it out loud. I also really didn’t like the word ‘slacks’ but felt vindicated when recently Mensa came out against the word ‘slacks’ in an official statement, proposing that it be removed from the vernacular.
Sir McHotpants cleared his throat again interrupting my preoccupation with odious sounding words. One of the herd of elevators was open, its red arrow pointing downward, and I continued to stand still, lost in my thoughts, completely unaware. No one else had yet entered the elevator and I could feel them watching me.
I shook myself a little, attempting to re-entrench in the present. I felt McHotpants place his hand on my back to guide me forward with gentle pressure; the warmth of his palm was soothing yet it sent a disconcerting electric shock down my spine; he lifted his other hand to where the door slid into the wall, effectively holding the elevator for me.
I quickly broke contact and settled into one of the lift’s corners; Sir Handsome followed me in but loitered near the front of the elevator, blocking the entrance, and pressed the ‘close door’ button before anyone else could enter. The partitions slid together and we were alone. He pulled a key on a retractable cord at his belt and fit it into a slot at the top of the button pad; I watched as he pressed a circle labeled BB.
I lifted an eyebrow in question and asked, “Are we going to the basement?”
He made no sign of affirmation as he turned to me, regarding me openly; we were in opposite corners. I imagined for a moment that we were two prize fighters and the spacious elevator was our ring, the brass rails around the perimeter the ropes. My eyes moved over him in equally plain assessment; he would definitely win if it came to blows.
I was tall for a girl but he was easily six foot three or four. I also hadn’t worked out with any seriousness or intensity since my college soccer days. He, judging by the large expanse of his shoulders, looked like he never missed a day at the gym and could bench press me as well as the box I was holding, even if it had contained the confiscated pencils.