About five minutes ago I needed a candy bar. I mean needed, like my heart had two Twix-sized stab wounds and they desperately ached to be clogged back up with chocolatepeanutbuttery goodness.
So I pay a visit to Rahm, the convenience store guy in the lobby of our office building. He asks why I never get Cherry 7up anymore. I tell him he needs to get rid of that bullshit antioxidant crap that he ordered. He says he ordered it for me. I ask if I look like I need antioxidants. He says no, they delivered the wrong kind. I tell him he should get a refund, and some real goddamn Cherry 7up with as many oxidants as they can fit in the goddamn can.
It is a thrilling conversation.
So I hop back on the elevator, dreaming of the Twix I'm about to shove down my throat, when a very handsome young gentleman with an armful of paperwork runs in there with me just before the doors close.
"Thanks," he breathes, as if I held the doors open for him with my mind or something.
He smiles and looks away quickly, leaning his body towards the elevator buttons, but he can't properly reach them.
I jump. "Oh, sorry--what floor?"
"Welcome." I don't know any other words, apparently.
Several seconds go by before he breaks the silence. "Nice," he says, eyeing my candy bar. "A candy bar seems like an excellent idea right now." Holy hell, he's got that cool, rippled, rusted (oxidized?) twilight MCA voice. I can feel myself shifting.
"I know, right?" I nod wisely, and lock my eyes onto his. My voice drops low and smokey. "The heart wants what it wants."
He looks uncomfortable.
Oh holy fuck and a half, am I coming onto him? Via candy bar, no less? He totally thinks...he thinks I'm disgusting. Break eye contact. Laugh.
We chuckle. Awkward. Shifting.
The elevator doors ding open.
I exit the elevator, stop, and smack myself on the forehead with my candy bar.
Before the doors close.