The Elevator

The man put his hands around her head and kissed her.

As the elevator dropped, a silvery rush came up from her high heels, up the backs of her legs, swirling upward through her uterus, stomach, solar plexus, where it joined the rush in her heart, and rose up to her cheeks—pink, to her eyes—heavy, and where it went after that didn’t matter.

Outside the day was dark, the skyline blazing in square fractals, a warm breeze slipping through trees.

The man dropped his hands and their mouths broke. He put one finger against her hip and stared at her right shoulder. He said something. The elevator stopped with a gentle bounce and the doors opened. He went out, white shirt, black pants, no sound.

She stood, not moving.

“What did he say?”

“He said…” She could feel the wine bitter on her tongue and torching the back of her throat. He had said, This is upside down.

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