“It’s stuck,” she says, squinting at the buttons in the lift.

Is she talking to herself? She can’t be talking to me. I’m just the IT guy from the fourth floor. The only women that acknowledge me are the ones that are forced to—Ellie in marketing when her laptop freezes every week, or the brunette on the tube this morning who asked if I minded shuffling up a seat. And certainly never someone who looks like they’ve come from the 32nd floor.

“It’s stuck,” she repeats, tossing her black curls over her shoulder and looking at me for assistance.

Shit. From the moment she hurried into the lift in a gust of rich-smoky perfume, dress pinched at the waist, collar bones on show, I knew I was in trouble.

Words, speech, a smile, anything. Even a god-damn nod. Just do something. I catch my reflection in the mirrored walls—my face is a mottled grey and my extremities are turning numb. Why is it always the pretty ones?

“Oh gosh,” she says, rushing to my side. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I’m sure this happens all the time. Here, take a few deep breaths with me.”

Her hand gently squeezes my shoulder and I struggle to breathe at all. I catch the sweet scent of her skin, her hair.

“Look at me,” she says, and I do. Her eyes are glassy blue, like the colour of the ocean over white sand. “We’re going to be just fine. Wait here a moment.”

She presses the intercom and after a short tone, there is a curt reply.

“Hello, how can I help?” His voice is a deep bass, polite and confident. I prepare to take notes. She explains our situation to him. “Sorry about this, ma’am. We’ll dispatch a caretaker to have a look.”

“Could you give an indication of how long that may be please?” She sounds clear-headed, decisive, yet polite. I get the impression she breezes through life with little effort, the world yielding to her beauty and intelligence. I notice she’s wearing several gold rings, but none on the finger that matters.

“We’re sending them right away. They’ll be a few minutes.”

She gives me a reassuring look. Just then she takes a compact mirror from her bag, adjusts her hair, and reapplies colour to the perfect bow of her lips. I feel ridiculous for even thinking it—is this for me?

“It’s Oliver isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I reply, both flattered and suspicious. “How do you—“

“All the girls on my floor talk about you: the cute, nerdy guy from IT. I thought you must be him!”

Is she flirting with me? I’m not entirely sure what flirting feels like but my chest flutters and twinges with something new.

After a moment, the lift judders and lurches, and we’re moving again. I let out an audible sigh and just as I find the courage to ask her, the lift bings. Ground floor.

On her way out to the main foyer, she gives me a wink.

“Nice to meet you, cute, nerdy guy from IT.”

She giggles and joins another beautiful woman, it’s Ellie from marketing. She pecks her on the lips and the two walk briskly hand-in-hand out onto the busy street.