Paused, waiting

Paused at the building’s entrance (entranced, paused at her entrance), and we waited together for me to enter. She, close to me and a sense of shared space starts to wrap its way around us, even as I stand at the entryphone. In the end, she had the keys and she let me in. Symbolism at the doorway, no less. The building, of course; I wait still to enter her. Finger to button to glance to the periphery of my vision. The woman’s waiting, though in some other sense, perhaps not just waiting for the door to open. I feel close to her. Close to a complete stranger of whom I know nothing yet but that she wears Boots and has Black Hair. Buzz. We step inside and I measure my pace to hers as we proceed to the lift. Attractive: time for us to share some more space, and the lift is on the top floor. Which means: a wait for it to come down to our level, which means: time for us to find our own levels together. Standing, half turned to each other: paused in the enforced tranquility of our waiting out the lift. There’s time for some almost-made glimpse, but in the careful incompleteness of our gestures, of our taking stock of each other, in the slowly connecting way of two strangers who already know they desire each other, we can sense our looks, gazes, timid smiles soon to be aligned. I look down, locking off my mind in the worn redness of the carpet. But I can sense her looking me, sense her face cast her desire over me. I’m looking at a fucking carpet and already she’s making me feel special. Well thank you, madam. Fucker. Lover. Friend. I’m pleased to repay the compliment, waiting for her to notice my face over hers, not caring to pull my face away when she looks up.

The lift is one of those which goes one floor at a time, you can’t press the buttons and have it remember where you all want it to go. So, in the place where I live, there’s a convention, a discreet social courtesy of asking where your lift-companion wants to get off. Just so you know which buttons to press. In this building, the lift is so small that it’s best for those leaving later to enter first, to avoid any tricky squeezing past in the tiny plastic laminate box. It’s with us two, finally. She fumbles the handle, twisting it too soon, and retwistingly opens the door. It’s time for my first words to her. I tell her where I want to get off; as I do, I’m aware of my weighting my words for maximum effect. It’s seduction, but all I’m saying is that I want to go my floor. A technical requirement with a lover’s entreaty hidden inside, such a delicious task. In ten words or less, too. You need to be on your toes for moments like this, and I am indeed so. It’s worked: she replies that she’s going further up: it’s her prerogative to enter the lift first, with her sexy voice and her smiling warm grasp of the meaning of my own simple declaration of intent. I feel her warmth. Yes, yes, the connection is surely there. The next time I meet her I really ought to say something like ‘I don’t care where you go, just take me with you and let me love you with my body where we get there’. Well, something briefer than that. Maybe I’ve already said it. I modestly lower my gaze - the lift is so small we’re nearly touching - but I do permit myself the modest indulgence of holding her alluring smile fully as I close the lift door behind me.

What have we shared? A minute, three glances and a couple of smiles: it’s already one of the world’s great almost-love affairs