lorna burchell

The Lift
 

The building is 15 stories high

and we’re in the lift

you and I

strangers

in this 3-foot-by-4-foot box

headed into the sky.

We’re so close,

though we have never met

our shoulders almost touching

and we have shared our breath

as intimately as

any mother and baby

than any lovers

during the last 3 floors.

We are both staring

into the middle distance

our gazes sliding off

the blank metal doors

the only movement to our left

are the lit numbers as they climb

in green circles

3…4

 

And I am actively trying not to know you

not to see

shutting off my senses

to the reminders that you are a human

like me,

I catch the scent of your washing powder

but close my nose.

[It is not polite to smell someone you don’t know.]

 

And because this is a lift

we must both pretend

we don’t exist

so we don’t take up too much of this small space

with the messiness of our beings

this fact hangs thick in the air

 

and I realize that there is a tear

sliding down my face

and I close my eyes

hold my breath

stay frozen in place

it is on my right cheek

the side that you are on.

Have I given myself away?

Panic grips me.

 

And then I sense

you moving slowly,

taking your hand out of your pocket

you slide your left hand into my right

softly

but stay staring forward,

I open my eyes.

You do not speak and I do not speak.

Your grip is warm and firm

but not too tight

I hold it back, hold on. Hold on.

7...8…9

 

And I don’t want you to let go

I don’t know when you’ll be gone

daren’t look at the panel

counting us apart,

but you keep holding my hand

we keep steadily breathing each other in and out

in and out.

 

My body slows.

My heart follows,

Then the lift stops with a small jolt.

And the doors sigh open.

You let go of my hand, gently.

And step out of the lift.

You do not turn around.

The doors close on your back.

 

The last three floors pass in an instant:

13…14…15

the soft ghost of your hand still in mine,

and I step out calmly.

And alone.