Part 3: That Damn Elevator
Until the day the elevator broke down with both of them in it.
It happened between the second and third floors.
One moment they were rising, the next moment there was a grinding noise, a concerning clunk, and then nothing. Just stillness and the hum of the fluorescent light that made everyone look slightly dead.
Brain looked at Kenya. Kenya looked at Brain.
She pulled out her phone, typed something, and showed him the screen:
Kenya text: Of course lol
He laughed despite being scared and trapped in a metal box. She was already texting someone—probably maintenance.
Twenty minutes passed. Kenya sat down, back against the elevator wall. Brain joined her, leaving a respectful distance between them.
She typed on her phone again, showed him:
Kenya: This is not how I wanted to spend my day off. ☹️
He took his phone out, typed back:
Brain: Same. I had plans to do nothing and I was really looking forward to it
Kenya laughed—actually laughed out loud—and Brain realized he’d never heard her laugh before. It was slightly too loud.
They texted back and forth like that for another thirty minutes. About the apartment building (trash). About the landlord (also trash). About her job (she worked at a nonprofit teaching ASL to families with deaf children). About his job (he was a graphic designer for a publishing company, that does books, albums covers etc. yeah as boring as it sounded).
Finally, after forty-five minutes, the elevator powered back up and stopped and stopped on the third floor.
They stood there in the hallway, in front of Brain’s door.
Brain pulled up his contacts. Added a new one. Handed her his phone.
She looked at it, looked at him, smiled and typed in her number.
When she handed it back, the contact name read: Kenya (the beautiful one from the elevator)
“Text me”
Brain: “I will”.
She walked toward the stairs to go up to her floor. Halfway there, she turned back to waive, and caught him still watching her like he was hypnotized or something.
He waved back.
Then she was gone, and Brain was standing in the hallway of the Parkside Apartments with a phone number and a story he’d probably tell for the rest of his life.
He looked at his phone.
At her number. At the contact name she’d given herself.
And finally—finally—he texted her:
This is Brain. The guy who smelled like trash the first time we met.
To be continued…….