All the lonely people by Tamil guy

I tap my foot anxiously on the sleek marble floor, watching the descending numbers. Late again. But it's not entirely my fault. I swapped shifts with George this week so he could leave early to take care of his kids while his wife recovered from surgery.

My new schedule requires me to be at the office by 10:00 instead of the usual 8:30. You'd think that would make me early, but with my morning gym routine, it's a struggle.

It's either a quick shower and being late, or skipping the shower and arriving sweaty and unpleasant. I figure my coworkers would prefer a tardy me over a stinky one.

The brisk sound of high heels on the floor catches my attention. I glance to my side and see a woman juggling a loaded satchel bag and a briefcase while reaching for the elevator call button.

I had already pressed it, and pressing it again won't make the elevator arrive any faster.

The numbers stop at the ground floor, and the doors open. I gesture for her to go ahead, and she presses the button for the 23rd floor, one floor above mine. I press 22 and step back, realizing it's just the two of us.

Without trying to be too obvious, I steal glances at her. She's petite, with short, curly black hair and a pair of Air Pods in her ears.

Her figure is accentuated by shiny black heels. I have a weakness for heels, though I can't fathom how women walk in them.

I want to introduce myself, say something like, "Hi, I'm Adrian." But the words get caught in my throat.

She smiles at me, a small smile that acknowledges my presence, accompanied by a subtle nod of her head.

I'm... well, I don't know her name. Jane? Alice? Maybe Elizabeth? Sarah? I decide to call her Eleanor, like the Beatles song. After all, we're both lonely people here.

"So, Eleanor, how long have you worked at Jackson and Fuller?" I speculate, knowing that it's a legal firm on the 23rd floor, according to the gold nameplate in the foyer.

"It's actually my first day," she responds. The packed briefcase suggests otherwise, but she can't possibly have worked there for six years. She looks around twenty-five.

"I'm doing my internship here. Been two months now." That's a better fit. "And you?"

"I'm an Assistant Accountant at SP and Associates on the twenty-second floor. I've been there for the past three years."

"Do you enjoy your work?" I ask, though it feels like a generic question. What else can two people trapped alone in an elevator discuss?

While I ponder if she's single, I subtly glance at her fingers. It's inconclusive, but I take a guess—she's single.

As the elevator ascends, I notice her head subtly moving to the rhythm of music only she can hear. It's captivating, as if I'm observing her through a window into her own private world.

"What music are you listening to?" I ask, intrigued. She's so cute, and I imagine she's into something cool and hip. Maybe an artist I've never heard of, or something jazzy or classical.

"Miles Davis," she responds. I'm a big Miles Davis fan, so I inquire about the album. "Kind of Blue," she says. Ah, she's listening to my favorite album.

The elevator dings, signaling my floor. I smile at her as I exit.

TUESDAY

The next day, despite being technically early for work, I loiter in the foyer, hoping to see Eleanor again. Eventually, I realize how foolish I'm being.

Thank you for reading! Please comment so I can reciprocate