Elevator Etiquette requires you to ask permission
before entering an already occupied elevator,
no matter how many minutes past 8:00 a.m.
you are, or whether you wear a mask for the 90
seconds you occupy a public space. Unaware
of Elevator Etiquette’s recent evolution,
since I’ve been working from home for 6 months,
I wedge my body through the sliver of a near-sealed
elevator door. A masked man postures himself unwilling
to lend one of his silver-lined wrists to stop the elevator
doors from shutting me and my unkempt, highlighted hair out.
I make it into the elevator on my own
and I feel fucking accomplished.
Shit—I forgot my mask.
This guy is scrunched up in the opposite corner like a slinky—
is he terrified of me? Or how penciled-in my eyebrows look
in the elevator-doors’ reflection? Maybe if I bathe elbow-deep
in Pocketbac Peony sanitizer he’ll see how super responsible
I really am—plus, I’ll smell fucking pristine.
Was I not supposed to get on Elevator F?
Why are we stopping on every floor?
Did I miss the “Maximum Capacity” sign?
Is there lipstick on my teeth?
I open my mouth to check for red stains
on my crest-white stripped teeth, and the shriveled
man jumps like I opened my mouth to eat him whole.
If I stare down as hard as possible until I reach the 16th floor,
maybe he won’t call out my naked mouth—
and since COVID has strict rules about eye contact,
it won’t be weird that I’m staring so hard at this floor
of cardboard. Wait… where the fuck did the marble tile go?
- Does This Elevator Have COVID? - June 21, 2021