Ever had that rush of tinkering heartbeats, the warm blood slowly creeping up and filling up your facial capillaries, as a beautiful stranger steps into an elevator? Or when everybody gets out of the 2x2 enclosure and all that is left are the both of you? You quickly avert your eyes, and have your attention focused intently on counting the tiles on the floor.

Do you suddenly pray that the elevator goes on forever? You who have never been pious before, do you immediately wish that you frequent the praying mat, just so your prayers would get a special place in God's judgement, just this once? Do you imagine the doors jammed together, and as he sweats wth anxiety, you sweating too, and the scent of fear binds you together? Finding a reason to huddle closer, to lament in the tragedy that befell you.

To feel the stubble of his goatee brushing your forehead, as he comforts you despite his own worries. To feel the hardness of his chest muscles, taut with fear and a result of vigorous workouts, as you lie your head against it. To hear his heartbeat tap-tap-tapping rhytmically with yours. Crushing your breasts against his chest.

Would you imagine him wishing the same thing? Shaking your head, suddenly sad, no of course he won't. He is a marble god, carved by Michelangelo, and you are but the pedestal that he steps on. (Even the thought of being an adornment of his beautiful feet sends you into a feverish glee).

You lifted your head, stealing a milisecond glance towards this Adonis, a payback for stealing your heart. Exchanging his warm smile with your own nervous grin. Wait a minute... he smiled at you??? You start cursing yourself, and imagination runs amok again. Interpreting the smile in many wondrous possibilities. Imagining the upward curve meeting your own dry, chapped and pale lips, slow, seductive and sexy.

Shaking your head again. The more your head is filled with these thoughts, the more your heart is filled with sadness.

And then the elevator door opens. A bright ray of light fills in as the beautiful stranger steps out, right foot first. As the brighter streaks of sunshine washes over him, you noticed his face accessorized by acne, his rather awkwardly stooped posture, his super hairy hands, gnarly and full of calluses. You zoomed your sights on the back of his pants and noticed the bulgeless form, loosely encased in a pair of too high waisted pants, noticing that his ankles are showing from frayed ended hems. Where his behind has no artistic form whatsoever, a mound seems to have formed where you imagined hard rectus abdominis crisscrossing.

He turned around, and his smile still melts you. Your day just seemed better.

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