TUESDAY

Although I am technically early to work the following day, having skipped my morning workout, I linger in the foyer, hoping to see my Eleanor again. Finally I realise that I’m being an idiot, there is no reason that she will be here today, just because she was here yesterday. As I press the button to call the elevator, I hear the tip-tap of heels on the marble floor and turn my head. There she is again. Her black curls secured this time, but her satchel and brief case still bulging.

Hi, again. I would say it, but I’m still struck mute.

Hi, yourself. Her voice would be husky, or maybe not. It might be breathy or high pitched, I don’t know. But for me, it’s a warm, throaty sound, reminiscent of Scarlett Johansson.

Did you get to work on time yesterday? I would ask. But how the hell would I know if she was late or early? 

Yes, thanks, I might be a bit late today though. Slept in. She doesn’t look like she slept in, she looks clean and fresh and incredibly relaxed for a Tuesday morning.

I find it easier to be on time if I start work at 8.00. Starting later just sees me wasting time in the morning, and all of a sudden, I’m late again! I would say and she would nod in understanding.

Yes, it’s hard to get going when you have extra time to kill in the morning. I would prefer to start early and finish early too. She would agree with me, we are both morning people in my mind.

Perhaps we could meet up for a coffee before work? That wouldn’t be creepy. Two adults who work in the same building meeting for coffee, it’s nothing too alarming. I almost open my mouth to ask her, and then realise two things almost simultaneously. I’ve never actually spoken to her, and this is my floor.

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WEDNESDAY

Again I wait until the last possible moment to press the button, hesitating with my hand hovering in mid air, but the click of heels on the marble floor never comes. So I reluctantly press it and wait until the elevator arrives. I delay entering until the last possible moment, before I take my solitary place within the lift. 

Just as the doors begin to close, I hear the now familiar staccato tap, faster and more urgent this time, as if she was running. I shove my hand between the closing doors, causing them to bounce open again and there she is, breathless and grateful. She smiles at me and I smile back. Our first real interaction, first eye contact, first word.

“Thanks,” she murmurs so quietly that I barely catch the sound as it tumbles from her lips. 

I just smile and nod back, my words caught behind my lips unable to force their way free.

You’re welcome. Running late again? I would ask if I could.

I just can’t seem to get the timing right in the morning. She would reply, her eyes twinkling ruefully.

Perhaps she is not the morning person I had believed her to be. Maybe it would be better to catch up after work for a drink and maybe some live music. I know a place around the corner from here that has live Jazz every night of the week. The Duke is a classy, classic Jazz bar, one of my favourite places to listen to music and unwind. We could get a table and share a bottle of wine with a meal. 

I get my phone out to check the website, to see who is playing there this week and the elevator stops at my floor. I step out, still focused on the website and don’t notice as the doors close behind me.

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