Four Floors

She stepped in on the fourth floor,

pressed the lobby button, stood

with her back to me. The door

closed on the two of us for good

or for four floors, at least.

Then — once — her shoulders moved.

One shudder, quickly ceased,

her stillness reassembled, grooved

back into place like she had practice.

I found my shoes interesting.

The panel. My hands. The lattice

of not-looking at anything

she didn't want seen. Three. Two.

The lobby doors spread wide

and she walked through — composed, through and through —

and I stayed inside.

Rode back up. The doors slid shut.

The elevator moved

without urgency. The gut-

level sense of having viewed

something that cost her more

than the composure she put back.

I looked at my reflection in the door:

just someone standing there. Just that.