It's morning and once again she is in front of elevator doors. They are ornate, carved designs in golden brass, a metal that usually looks gaudy to her, but not there, not then. These doors are heavy, majestic, a little like palace doors in some imagined futuristic palace.
The elevator dings and opens. She steps into the spacious, mirrored cavern, her feet silent against the old but shining floors. The elevator closes. She always forgets to press the button. It is as if she believes that, somehow, the elevator really is futuristic, as if it will know exactly where she is going without her doing anything and take her there. Or, maybe, it is because she hopes it will take her somewhere else.
With a sigh, she sets down her briefcase and lifts her hand to select her floor, the plastic depressing under the pressure of her finger and the answering light coming alive, the dark red, nearly black of her nail polish sparkling against it.
She drops her hand and sighs again. The display is counting floors but she isn't watching. She isn't even thinking really, just existing, moving through water, still half asleep. She is grateful there is no elevator music.
She feels it come to a stop so softly and the doors begin to draw open. Bending, she hefts her briefcase, and straightens, expecting to see the neutral wall paint of the walls and the dark spread of the carpeting in the hallway. She expects. The door opens.
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