She's got it like that.
Susan that morning, in a runway strut, heel to toe on her way through the double doors, past the security guard and off to the elevator. She noticed it was somewhere about the 60th floor.
At the full length mirror off to the side near the plants by the bench. With her back facing it, one side after the next, a gliding hand worked its way down her cosmo-curved silhouette to smooth the non-existent wrinkles from her skirt.
The elevator now at the 20th, straitening her collar with a fast bangle shake; it was now at the 8th. A quick ten finger tease to her jumbo curls, now at the 4th,. . . . Finishing with a peck to her fingers she blew herself a kiss; . . . . . . it was touching down.
And wahlah. . . the bell dinged as the door opened.
Grabbing her bag in a cordial manner, she got there just as the last person was stepping out, having the place to herself all the way up.
The End