There were a lot of virtues Owen was still trying to pin down, but he liked to think he’d come a long way on patience. Helped to have days there wasn’t much to do ‘cept sit with the radio, Led Zeppelin for the third time that day, the shop quiet enough to hear the front desk’s bell through the wall. At least, it made a difference for the times like these – were there other times like these? – when the twenty seconds of floor count-down felt like two minutes, standing there, watching. Felt like twelve. And he could feel her looking at him where his peripheral cut out, but he tried to look back without turning his head, anyway, just to prove she was there.
And then he did turn his head.
‘Cause, really, what was the point in playing shy?
She got the picture. Tasted like wine smelled from the chair next to his mother’s glass, faint red metal as she opened her mouth. So much for patience – as soon as the doors closed, Owen was nudging her against the railing for leverage, something he could lean her against so he could lean into her. There was no room for nuance. The table too small for both of them, suddenly crowded with both her hands on him; well, alone, he could volley back, and it was the sort of big elevator that only came in big luxury hotels, but Lori was wearing perfume, see? So light it almost disappeared, the way her teeth scraped his tongue.
A guy could wish for a closer space. A guy did – he was tugging her away from the wall he’d just pushed her to when the doors opened again, ‘cause he hadn’t bothered to get them moving, and for a few seconds, their eyes were open. You’re a mess, she’d said. Same dimple she had now, lining the side of her smile. Owen twisted to press one of the buttons behind him – the highest, the top-most, the longest possible ride – and then met her again, her head already tilting to find his palm.
These were her hands under his jacket, shaping him up. Her dress made a silhouette and now he could feel it, the dip in her back, the gentle lines he thumbed that traced what she was wearing underneath. Whites were sweet, had to be kept on ice, barely recognizable under all the warmth spilling out of her – and it had been so long since he’d had – since he’d had anything, months since someone else’s breath – and he had to stay clear stay clear stay clear enough to press the right floor before they hit the top, so they’d go right back down without a hitch.
They were joined on floor 15 by a young girl in a swimsuit, who deliberately avoided their eyes when Owen finally slid his hips away from hers. For the next seven numbers, he was close enough to feel a sort of static – in his head, he knew, but he was careful to avoid the railing in case of shock, anyway – and all his relief came out in a sigh once it was their turn to get off. It made sense her hand would fit in his, smaller but slotted for his fingers as he pulled her the few more doors to his room. She was quiet, waiting for the keycard to light up green. She stayed quiet and close.
There was something about elevator music. Always loud, but never upbeat enough to beat out the silence of strangers. It was hard to keep out a breath, in those moments -- scared to draw attention, disrupt the natural order. Breathe through your nose, they told her at school. Breathe through your nose, and you’ll never have to pull back for air. And it was hard to know whether or not to say “good morning,” or “good day,” while pressing on buttons, and closing doors, and trying to keep it all in her chest. There was something, had to be some sort of elevator etiquette. (Right?) Lori was happy she’d said something, this time ‘round -- with the numbers ticking ticking up, and the music, and his breath all in her head.
Noise wasn’t an issue, here -- like the Ed Sheeran song filtering through the ballroom walls (with her back on wood) (with her back on metal) -- hearing how his mouth tasted. Lori had to-- she had to hold onto something, hold onto him, with her hands yanking out his shirt. Tucked into him, against the railing. No air in the elevator, no air between them; his fingers stretched across her back, pressing into fabric over lace over nothing. Lori could press, too -- legs cool pushing against his belt buckle, her tongue lining his bottom lip.
It was involuntary-- the way her hips rolled forward when Owen moved away. Wished that she could lock the sigh back in his mouth. Smile back into his smile. But Lori blinked, and smoothed out the creases she’d created down the back of his coat-- and there was a little girl, now, standing in the corner of the elevator. A squeak: (was that Lori?) the rubber rings, puffed up around the girl’s arms, shifted as she backed into the wall. Lori had to count all the exhales she couldn’t take (make), with the small stranger in the swimsuit making all the sounds silent again.
Out in the hall, she still couldn’t breathe. Like she’d just ran a full flight of stairs (the wind in her chest) (her heart catching time in her ears). He must’ve felt it, too; his fingers on her wrist on her pulse.
There wasn’t a difference between elevators or staircases, see? Her lungs were always full.
And Lori was skipping steps to the door, now -- trailing close behind him with a wet palm. Flexed her fingers across his knuckles. In, out: cheeks red (blue from barely breathing) when the key-card reader lit up green. It was stuffy in the hallway; hot from the heat off his back. Elbows knocking, they were so close. But quiet, she realised, (this type of quiet) (holding his hand till they were in his hotel room) didn't have to be uncomfortable. It wasn't. But it was hard to blink in the dark. Even harder with Owen reaching to flick the light on above the sink in the entryway; leaving her to wipe her own fingers over her skirt. Hadn’t been so far away from him since she’d sat down on the table in the lobby. This was the door closed against her back, now, and the minimal lighting casting shadows across the carpet. Only her thighs touching. Owen tugged till his tie was loose around his neck. She couldn’t stop looking at him. Inhaling through her nose. Wanted to see more -- really see, y’know?
She shifted, and kicked off her heels.
They met in the middle. Lori was the first one to move, (had been the one to make a move in the first place, even) making a grab for his collar. And it was like Owen knew it was coming-- like he was ready for it-- the almost instant pressure of his mouth on hers. Tongue against her teeth. Teeth against his lip. Lori blindly trying to pull the suit jacket off his shoulders. Had the type of pounding in her head that wasn’t caused by alcohol, or a beating, but this: button after button, and Owen slowly dragging the zipper down the back of her dress.
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