“They just moved into the penthouse, I’ll run it up.” I head straight for the elevator bay, with the oddly shaped, brown paper wrapped escape tucked under my arm.
The lift doors slide open and I forget all about the package, my waiting desk, everything fades in the presence of the woman already on board. She is tall, magnificently ancient, with a long white braid and a mad flash of neon fuchsia lipstick – a lesser gloss would never balance the curious intensity of the eyes above. I take my spot in the opposite corner, but let my finger drop when I notice the 10th floor button has already been pushed.
The doors close and I am suddenly, acutely aware of my own appearance – a total systems fail. I feel the woman’s eyes judging me, even though I keep my gaze fixed on the carpeting, and on her exquisitely designed sneakers that I am suddenly, and acutely, wanting for myself.
“You know,” says the woman, “every second you wear those pants you mock God.”
I look up mortified, and find her smile glowing brighter. “That might be a bit extreme,” I say.
“You’re holding your crotch together with packing tape. Do you have another definition of extreme when it comes to fashion sacrilege?”
“I know they’re grim, ok fine. But the receptionist gave them to me ages ago and I’m not really trying to impress anyone down there <<pointing to mystical 6th floor below>>. But, in my defense, I did write an epic makeover serial on my older blog called ‘burning the ugly pants’ and these were them.”
The woman crosses her arms and stamps a sneakered toe. “Writing isn’t worth shit if you don’t live it. You and I are going up to the roof right now and we’re going to burn those abominations you call pants. Come on girl, it’s time to stop screwing around.”