Vicki xx and I met on the elevator this morning. One of us dropped a FOB. We weren't sure who had done it - frazzled as we were with our coffee cups, umbrellas, and respective hangovers - and in an overt display of courtesy we both fell to the ground, desperately searching for the little piece of plastic that permitted one of us access to our respective floor of work in this godforsaken building.
I ride the elevator approximately six times a day, five days a week. I've done so for the past eleven months. That's a lot of rides. And until today, I'd never crossed paths with Vicki xx.
To describe her would be like trying to describe something for which there are no words, like why someone should purchase a fleet of MFP printers, or that feeling you get when coffee hits your system and a trip to the bathroom grows pants-shittingly imminent. I suppose I'll leave you with the impression that she's the sort of woman who wouldn't look out of place anywhere, ever, with a pink feather boa draped around her neck.
We talked about many things on that first ride during the remaining four seconds that passed between my finding her FOB and her stepping off the elevator onto the 12th floor. Among several other coincidences, I learned we both share a fondness for cold meatball sandwiches.
We parted ways after burying a "besties" time capsule in the floor of the elevator and promising to try and run into each other again. Not a second has passed this morning that I haven't thought of Vicki xx, and the pink feather boa I'd imagine she could pull off wearing anywhere.
Until we meet again.