The Lift Is Out

The elevator lobby of the Meridian penthouse smelled of wet wool and expensive polish. I stood next to Owen, listening to the lift motor whine, then grind to a halt with a metallic shudder. Rain lashed the glass doors behind us, horizontal and relentless, turning the city skyline into a smear of grey watercolor.

Owen didn’t look at me. He adjusted his cufflinks, silver against a charcoal shirt that cost more than my first car. He was quiet in the way a loaded gun is quiet: steady, heavy, and waiting for a trigger. We had spent the last two years politely hating each other, fighting over listings in this building with the subtlety of sledgehammers. We were here for a joint viewing of unit 22A. The owner was late. The lift was broken.

We were twenty-two floors short of the viewing, stuck with the one person neither of us wanted to be stuck with.