I lived in a doorman building in Manhattan for two years. Before you get too impressed, I’ll clarify. My building was in Hell’s Kitchen, right at the entrance to the Lincoln Tunnel. And I lived in the living room of a one-bedroom apartment. For two years. In the living room.
That’s neither here nor there actually. I just sometimes marvel at that fact.
One Sunday evening, I stepped into the elevator on the way up to my apartment. I had spent the weekend in Boston with my sister, so I was carrying a backpack with my overnight items in it. The only other passenger was male, a little older than me, and cute. I gave him a half-smile and averted my eyes. (You may not be able to tell from this blog, but I can be quite shy.)
As I turned around to face the door, something behind me started buzzing. At first, I ignored it. I figured it was the elevator shifting gears or something. But the noise continued, so I turned around to take a look. As I moved, the sound moved with me. Bzzzzzzz. Cute Man looked meaningfully at my backpack, raised an eyebrow, and gave a slow blink.
My chest tightened as I realized my electric toothbrush must somehow have turned itself on. I threw the bag down, unzipping it furiously in the hopes that Cute Man could get a glimpse of it and we could have a little chuckle together.
I was still digging through my dirty clothes as the elevator bounced to a stand-still at his floor and he sauntered off. It was everything I could do not to shout, “It’s not a vibrator!”
Future elevator rides with Cute Man involved no eye contact. Or breathing.