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Show Motherlunge a novel 49 "Pavlovian thistle." "Ah," I said, and we stood there facing each other for a moment, grinning. Then Eli said, "Do you drink coffee?" And so it came to pass that we went to coffee that day, a Tuesday, and again on Thursday. The second time, as we were walking back toward the elevator bank on the first floor of the building, Eli nudged me gently into one of the giant potted palm trees meant to enliven the building's barren corporate atrium. "Outta the way, ma'am," he drawled. I staggered happily toward the elevator. In super slow motion, he elbowed me across the chest to reach the up button first. I looked at the lit button, aware of Eli's rate of respiration. When the elevator door opened, I waited for him to step inside ahead of me. "Get in there, punk," I breathed. And then the door closed. It got quiet. I saw my face reflected in the control panel; I was smiling too widely-almost rectangularly-and my eyes were wide behind my glasses, manic with bare hope. Oh no, I thought, and I braced myself. And then Eli reached out. He grabbed my waist and pulled me in, and the elevator got sucked up the shaft as we went down together, weak-kneed, like two soft metals to an alloy. "And he pulled me in," I said to Pavia sitting across from me at the wobbly metal table. She folded her arms on the table and looked at me. She exhaled audibly through her nostrils; the pastry flakes, in her neck scarf trembled. "Hormones," she said suddenly, taking in a little gulp of air. And she pressed a balled-up napkin to the comers of her shining eyes. |
