Door to Somewhere - another writing exercise

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.

A mini play in one act

Set: the morning rush hour express train heading down town, packed to the gills

He is smiling, not on purpose, not because he is responding to something she is saying, but because he is standing right before her soclosesoclosesoclose, her eyes are like earth, rich and brown and everything and her hair smells like honeysuckle and the sunshine of the departed summer.  He dips his head for a brief press of his lips to hers but the kiss lingers softly, her eyes closing, his eyes closing, the chatter around them receding into nothingness.  There is no whine of the train against the tracks, there is no slightly garbled voice of the announcement.  The train stops as the kiss ends.  He briefly brushes his cheek against hers, her skin silksatinvelvethomehomehomehome, and swallows, his smile fading.  Then he steps out onto the station, leaving her behind.

The black plague

Dear sick people,

If you are coughing and sound like you have consumption or maybe the ebola, please stay home. And especially please do not get on a train, which is an enclosed environment, and expose the rest of us to your plague.

Believe me, I understand we all need to make money and go to work but I promise you won't be able to work if you're dead. And you will be dead if you infect me with your death flu.

No love,

Me and my poor immune system

Dear employers,

Please provide your employees with sufficient paid sick time. Sick people do crappy work anyway and they just spread it all over the office and then nothing at all gets done.

Besides it will be quite the hassle to replace your employees if I have to terminate them with prejudice. I promise my way will work out better.

No love,

Me and my poor immune system