But today, she was running far behind, and she had no intentions of being late for her blind date. It had been months since she’d been on a satisfying date. The severity of her phobia made it impossible to cope with the booths and enclaves of restaurants, even made it gut-wrenchingly difficult to sit in the dark surroundings and close proximity of a movie theater. Of all the reasons she hated her claustrophobia, the toll it took on her social life was the hardest. In desperation she’d allowed her flatmate Sherry to fix her up with what Sherry called “a thoroughly suitable mate.” To be honest, it sounded more than a little iffy, but Jeff sounded nice on the phone, and at this point Candace was ready to settle for a minimally entertaining couple of hours and a decent glass of cabernet. Beggars can’t be choosers, she told herself.
Her impending date did nothing to make the prospect of riding the elvator more appealing, however. Just thinking about locking herself into the metal cube filled Candace with panic. Dr. Li, her psychologist, assured her that she would conquer this fear as soon as she could step outside of it for long enough to witness its irrationality. That was all well and good, as far as Candace was concerned, but she was pretty sure this was not the day her miraculous objectivity was destined to arrive. She was afraid-bordering-on-terrified, but determined to keep her date rather than allow her claustrophobia to ruin yet another evening’s plans.
The elevator was empty, a blessing. She was usually one of the last to leave the office, and her extraordinarily difficult last client-call made doubly sure that she had the elevator to herself. Relieved, Candace tried not to hear the door sliding shut on its track as she shut her eyes and began breathing deeply. Sometimes, if she caught it early, deep breathing exercises helped her contain her panic. Free from the curious stares of coworkers, she tried to slow her racing heartbeat as she waited for the ride to end. When she felt the sharp jolt of the box’s halt an eternity later, she opened her eyes, only to find that she’d stopped sixteen floors down. She groaned as the doors snicked open, wondering if she could finish the ride with an audience.
A single extra passenger boarded the elevator while Candace debated herself about how sweaty she’d get and how late she’d be if she fled down the stairs rather than face the second half of the cab’s descent. Absorbed in her own struggles, she barely registered the new occupant, noticing only that it was a tall man in an overcoat and business suit.
Before she could decide whether to stay or exit, Candace heard the man impatiently jab the button to close the doors, effectively making her decision for her. She closed her eyes again, silently hoping that it would be over quickly, and that the new passenger would maintain the barrier of distance common to polite strangers. Pulse thundering in her ears, she felt the stomach-dropping descent resume.
And then stop, only a second later. Her eyes flew open, as she looked to confirm her worst suspicions. The doors did not open, and she turned to the number panel above the frame for answers. She and her co-prisoner were halted, but she couldn’t tell exactly where they were stuck, as the electronic panel for displaying the floor number was blank and unhelpful. For the first time, she turned to look at her temporary companion.
“What do we do?” she asked, her voice becoming louder and more shrill on the last word. “What do we…” she stopped her question with a sudden flood of tears, her panic resurfacing with a vengeance and she covered her eyes with a hand to hide her humiliating outburst .
The stranger touched her other arm, trying to get her attention. “Hey, are you okay?” he asked her lamely, still distracted by their situation, but increasingly concerned about her overreaction to it. When he stepped onto the elevator, he’d thought she was tired, or possibly sick to her stomach, as she had looked shaky and pale. In fact, the only other thing he’d noticed about her was the way her boxy blazer failed to conceal the figure-hugging knit dress underneath it. Now, he was beginning to wonder if she was crazy. At the least, she was becoming hysterical.
Steve didn’t want to deal with a hysterical and possibly insane woman; all he wanted to do was figure out the problem, get out of the elevator, and be on his way home. He’d had a long enough day already, leaving him tired, impatient, and cranky. He was in no mood for the apparently multiple problems he’d been handed.
He tried talking to her. “Hey, don’t worry. I’m sure it’s no big deal. Be over before you know it.”
This had no apparent effect; if anything, she cried harder.
“Come on, now. We’re fine, it’s okay.”
She struggled visibly to pull herself together, succeeding only minimally. At least her crying slowed, and she removed her hand from her face, looking up at him.
Steve took this as a positive sign, and continued to speak soothing words. “There you go…You look shaky. Do you want to sit down?” He took off his overcoat as he said this, gently folding it to the floor as a makeshift seat.
Despite his valiant effort, she shook her head in reply. When she did this, a bead of sweat dislodged from her hairline and trailed down her left cheek. “Are you too hot? Maybe you should take off your jacket?” He phrased it as a question, not wanting to alarm her or set her off on another crying jag. He began to feel sorry for her, wondering again if she was ill.
Although she didn’t reply, she took his advice and removed her jacket, folding it onto his own coat on the elevator’s floor. In spite of the bizarre circumstances, Steve caught himself checking her out as she performed this simple action. Despite her paleness, she had been nice-looking before their current situation; removing the jacket revealed her stunning figure even more clearly. The form fitting black dress accentuated her nicely rounded ass and drew attention down to her tanned and bare legs. He noted this to himself absently, wondering if his intervention would help her cool down literally and figuratively. The removal of her jacket didn’t seem to make her more comfortable, however, as sweat was increasingly visible on her face and at her neckline.
She asked him again, “What do we do?”, adding the new if not very helpful question “What’s going on–are we stuck?” Though he felt somewhat sorry for her, in his snappish mood, Steve had to refrain from pointing out that they were obviously stuck, a fact any child could see. The delay this restraint caused in his response time seemed to encourage her to resume panicking. “Ohmigod,” she blurted out in a tumbled-together rush, “we’re going to die here, I know it. Ohmigod, ohmigod…”