Her lips press into a firm line, the elevator climbing leisurely.
Her eyes glaze over.
She looks down at her watch.
His back slumps against the cold metal bar.
She hugs her clipboard.
Eyes stare at the ground.
She sips her latte.
He gets courage again.
“So, what floor are you?”
She tucks a stray hair into her perfect bun, waiting for the forever-ding.
He grips back of neck, and turns slightly away.
Her eyes pan. Her nose scrunches as if she’s smelt something weird.
That’s when it’s realized nothing was ever said out loud.