[ WP ] Short story that takes place in a single elevator ride .

A ghost wandered into the elevator on the third floor. She wore a white dress, like no one does anymore. He hair was up, except for a wavy lock that lingered on her shoulder. She had bright doe eyes, and wine red lips. 
 
 I was in love. 
 
 I stared. It was n't in my control. I stared at her. I got myself under control, looked up, and started staring at her in the elevator mirror. 
 
 We were on the 7th floor. My office was on the 55th, and she had pushed 37. 30 floors. That could n't possibly be enough time. 
 
 I looked back at the mirror. She had a book out. *The Thin Man*, by Hammett. I had a book too, in my bag. Would it be strange if I got it out? Would it make me seem more inconspicuous? Would it make me less nervous? I reached for the zipper on my shoulder bag, and yanked at it. It immediately caught, and was stuck. I frantically tugged at it for a few seconds, then let it go. 
 
 17th floor. Elevators move fast in big buildings, I suppose. More leverage? I'd Google it later. I looked back at her, in the mirror. Still reading. 
 
 I became aware of the space between us. To me, it created an uncomfortable sort of echo, a little nag for me to fill the gap. I inched a bit closer, slowly. 
 
 The door opened. An older man in a pinstripe suit walked in, and pressed 26. Agony for 6 floors. I cursed him, glowered, and imagined what hell was like until he stepped off. Then the familiar anxiety set in. I was relieved, almost. 
 
 7 floors left. I turned to her, leaned in, opened my mouth. Then I stopped. Closed my mouth. Leaned back. Took a breath. 
 
 Enjoyed the ride. 
 
 The doors opened on 37. She walked out, book by her side, turning left. She glanced into the elevator as she did, and our eyes met. That was nice, at least. 
 
 The doors closed.
