You are stuck in an elevator with an intriguing stranger. Write this scene.
It came to a jolting halt. We tumbled slightly, but regained our balance. For the first time since stepping into the elevator, I looked at my fellow passenger. It wasn’t quite a stranger – it was the familiar face of that lady whom I have never spoken with, despite having met at the lobby every so often for the past six years of living here.
Her white long coat crumpled and stained by the filthy floor, she patted it to rid the dirt. Her firmly styled pixie-cut hair was tousled by the untimely event. She looked up from the clumsy fall, and smiled calmly. “I’m sorry,” she said softly.
I helped her up and rudely stared into those hazel eyes. There had been an unforgettably gentle voice which had permeated through the upper storey to my windows at each sunset – a mellowness tainted by a tinge of grief – that, which sang through the early evening, had actually belonged to this woman.
What was hidden behind that strong character and hard face?
The tenants at this apartment had wrongly concluded that the beautiful voice belonged to an estranged mistress; or that of a embittered wife.
They had, on separate accounts, assumed that this woman standing before me was a well-groomed overachiever who worked through the nights and would speak no words to her neighbours.
Yet no one had ever – not even once – matched this face to the voice.
Who was she; who really, was she?
The lift bumped into action again, followed by a light chime. She had arrived at her floor. Ashamed of my misbehaviour, I quickly released my grasped of her arm. She nodded politely, and exited.
Shall I see her again tomorrow?