Fictional Elevator | Faking it Till I Become it

Stainless Steel Elevators

365 days of writing prompts: day May 23. Topic: You’re stuck in an elevator with an intriguing stranger. Write this scene.

Getting into the elevator, I am checking myself in my hand mirror, it’s hot, I am sweating but trying to look cool, having swabbed my face with a tissue, I need to see if I have bits stuck to my face. I am prone to do this and find after the fact that I had bits of tissue stuck at random, but visible, to my visage. It’s funny yes, but I am dressed in my corporate power dress. Crisp white shirt, black pants and my unspoken psychological weapon, my high heels, so that when I shake hands with the meeting delegates, (men), I am able to look them in the eyes, while giving a firm, straight shake, not like the half-handed, tips of fingers women are prone to do. My black jacket is over my arm and it’s making me flustered, it’s too warm. My spectacles are misting up from the heat outside and the cool of the elevator and it takes every vestige of inner strength to stay calm. Face checked, tissue wiped off, too late to worry about the melted make-up.

As I go to fish in my bag for my spectacle cleaner to mop up the mist on my glasses, I notice someone in the elevator. He is tall, hmm, my type, slender, a bald shaven head, with the strong features and beautiful eyes of those statues, like David. He is dirty jeaned, not corporate. My pheromones in any event begin to jump. My unconscious mind making all the right neurological connections, which I don’t need right now. My tissue face, misted glasses and flusteredness are quite enough thanks, I think. I can’t get control and my sweating increases and my hands begin to tremble. Damp armpit marks are beginning to show on my white shirt. The elevator hums and jars to a halt, he steps out, giving me a quick look and a smile. My glasses are still misted and I see him as through a fog. Now, I’m thinking of strategies to bump the pheromones out of my consciousness before the door opens at my floor. Well, there’s always the lady’s room and women are expected to be late, I console myself. Just in time I slap on my business face, thinking, these things are sent to humble us. I remember Amy Cuddy, I do the hands on hips power pose, the low tech trick to send a message to your brain that you are in fact making it. Now, I’m back, I can fake it till I become it.

Free image from StockVault

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