Page 83 of Drawn Together
“You have your phone?”
“You don’t?”
“No, if I did, I would’ve called someone before lifting you to look through the ceiling panel.”
He says this like it’s an obvious thought that has yet to occur to me. I slip off his shoulders and back onto solid ground with a huff.
“Who doesn’t carry their phone with them?” I ask.
“People trying to not stare at their unanswered texts for seven hours a day.”
Wrong. I do that every time I’m waiting for him to reply back to me.
“Here.” I unlock my phone and dial 911, letting him handle the call, knowing if I do it, I will end up asking about the operator's enneagram type and childhood upbringing before even mentioning the word ‘elevator.’
The phone call is fairly brief once they actually pick up five minutes after dialing, saying we were number twenty-eight in line—half of which I am willing to bet are toddlers on their mom’s phone or an old lady claiming someone is in her apartment when it’s just the radiator. Certainly no one stuck in an elevator. Fletcher gives our address first, then both of our names, then explains we are stuck in an elevator between floors with, and I quote, ‘no way out.’ Really struck a chord there—a deep realization that we are indeed stuck, stuck. Not cute stuck, like a closet game of sardines where we can slip out anytime we want, but really stuck here with no way out.
He hangs up and moves to sit down, and I swear the room doubles in size. “They said it will be thirty minutes.”
“Thirty minutes?”
Those big brown eyes go soft. “Are you claustrophobic?”
“I don’t think so, but then again, I’ve never been stuck in the elevator with someone I’ve—”
“Been avoiding?”
I don’t answer, not quite sure what to say. Instead, I just slide down onto the floor across from him and whisper to myself, “Thirty minutes.”
After a few moments of silence, Fletcher reaches for our paper bags. “Might as well.”
He hands me a cup of egg drop soup with oyster crackers and a plastic spoon; it is possibly the best thing I have ever tasted. He opens his own lid from his cup and if I close my eyes, the smell that wafts in the air is enough to make me feel like we might just be at a small Chinese restaurant with fortune cookies on our table. His would say something like ‘run now before it’s too late,’ and mine would say ‘it is too late; you adore this man.’ Both would be correct.
We agree to drink only half of our soups, just in case, and set the rest to the side. When the boredom really sinks in, we start rifling through my groceries. I’ve given up on my eggs and milk staying good by the time we get back to my apartment, but we do rifle through the seasoned pumpkin seeds and apple turn overs.
Before we know it, thirty minutes have come and passed and we’re still here, stuck in silence. I would say we could watch a movie or play music or do anything on my phone, but it’s at ten percent, and I worry we’re going to have to make calls again soon to say goodbye to our loved ones.
Which reminds me. “Can’t we just call Noah to come climb his way up here and flex his muscles and yank this thing open?”
Fletcher rolls his eyes so hard I think they might fall into the floor. “Oh, you’d like that wouldn’t you?”
“Very much so.”
“You know, I’ll let you avoid me and pretend like nothing happened the other night and steal all my crackers and whatever else you want, but I am not going to watch you ogle Noah ripping open an elevator door.”
“Too bad, I’m already texting him.” My phone appears in hand, and I am just typing away.
The previous amusement on his face drops. “You have his number?”
“Yes.” No. But I can type in my notes and pretend like I do.
His nose scrunches, glasses lifting higher. “I hope you know that he has a permanent case of Athlete’s Foot that no antibiotic could ever cure."
“I hope you know I really don’t care.”
“If we ever get out of here, I’m taking the rest of your soup home with me.”
I respond, “If we ever get out of here, I’m spitting in your poor excuse for soup when you’re not looking.”
