Elevisits

In the fashion of today, the frizzy haired woman (portly) joined me on the elevator. Mounds of tight, red curls cascaded down her bulbous neck to a ribbed green sweater exhibiting the distorted pattern of exerted containment - mute testimony of protracted battle. An assortment of interleaved gold chains and accompanying dangling-medallion offspring draped in every direction, flaunting the conventions of gravity as they were alternately pinched and released by mounds of sweater. The aroma of inexpensive perfume displaced the already stale air within. Vertigo arrived as the elevator began its downward acceleration.

This cumulative assault on my senses rendered me defenceless to counter the next bold and unexpected manoeuvre of the woman. Despite my profound disinterest in communicating, her sincere and deep-rooted obligation to speak shattered the near silent hum of the elevator traction cables. “Eating fruit.” It was a punctual if ill considered statement, as it clearly drew my eyes away from her attire to the peach (two bites missing) that was slowly bleeding down her arm. Armed with a deepening sense of claustrophobia, I smiled, walked off the elevator at the next available floor, and shook my head with disbelief at the slow erosion of social progress.