The Elevator

a vignette about falling in love

It was different from the way I always fell so hard and fast. Usually I jumped in with both eyes closed, reckless and impulsive, hoping for the best. A free fall. You were different. With you, it was a slow descent, like riding an elevator. Standing there beside you I could see the floor numbers changing, progressing, as we floated downward slowly, deeper and deeper. Intuitively I knew we were going somewhere; I watched those numbers light up one by one with the perked ears and tilted gaze of an inquisitive puppy. But I never really felt the gravity of our journey; could hardly feel that elevator moving at all until the moment we hit that last floor with a tiny, gentle bump, and I suddenly realized — with such pleasant, tender surprise — that I was yours, and you were mine, and we were still in that elevator, and together now, and hand in hand now. I had fallen for you, with you, so quietly, imperceptibly; the way the moon slowly reveals itself to you at night until it glows bright enough in the sky to light your path and bewitch your heart. And by then it is too late to chase the sun as darkness takes over and blankets you with stars and mystery and wonder and a sighing, coveted, contented stillness. An end to a day that leads to the dawn of the next. How did you do that? How did we get here? When? The doors opened and we walked out and I knew then that I had already loved you five floors up.