(Nocturne in G minor, languido e rubato)

Mid-chord the Chopin ends, and Elevator #8, the express to floors 11–20, shudders to a stop. A bell, loud and harsh, rings twice, lights flicker, and then nothing. A frail, moon-pale glow edges the ceiling and floors. Otherwise, darkness. Silence.

“Oh-oh,” says Robin, one of the two elevator occupants, both young women but not from the same office.

“What do you think it is?” whispers Kate. “Terrorists?”

“Don’t say that. It’s probably just a glitch. They’ll have it fixed in no time.”

“I hope so.”

“Yeah,” Robin says. “Otherwise just our bad luck not to have a cute guy on board. Or that we’re not lesbians.”

Kate lowers her eyes. “The thing is, I’ve got to go.”

“Right,” Robin agrees. “If I miss the Hartwell meeting—”

“No, I mean like go pee,” Kate says. “Really bad.”

“Oh.”

“I shouldn’t have waited.”

“Try pressing some buttons,” Robin suggests. “Isn’t there an emergency one?”

Kate, nearer the panel, presses them all. Nothing.

“Security must know,” Robin says. “Unless it’s the whole building. Do you see any surveillance cameras?”

“With my luck, it’s the whole city,” Kate says.

“Is there a phone?” Robin asks.

“Right, my cell,” Kate says. “Good thinking.”

But it doesn’t work. Not even static.

“This could be a dead zone,” Kate says. “I always hate people who use cell phones in elevators. I don’t mean now, of course. Can you try yours?”

“I left it in my desk,” Robin confesses. “I left everything in my desk.”

By now their eyes have adjusted. Long-legged Kate. Dark hair. A trim pants suit. Robin equally slender but six inches shorter. A simple but elegant frock. Wild auburn curls cascading to her shoulders. Pretty girls.

“Should we yell for help?” Robin suggests.

“I’m not much of a yeller,” Kate says. “Not even in bed.” She giggles. “Oh dear. If I laugh again I’ll wet for sure.”

“Hello?” Robin calls. “Anybody out there? Anybody hear us? Hello? Hell-lo-o.”

“I’ve got to go really bad,” Kate says.

“I have a water in my purse,” Robin says. “A water and a banana fresh from the café. If we drank the water, then you could use the container to...”

“I couldn’t drink any more water,” Kate says.

“I’ll drink it, then,” Robin says, and in a minute she’s unscrewed the cap and finished much of the bottle. “You sure you don’t want a sip? We might be here for...”

“Just a sip,” Kate says. She drinks. “That’s all I can. Maybe there’s enough room now, but the hole’s so small. This is really embarrassing. I’d have to take off my—everything.”

“I’ll turn my back.”

“What if the elevator starts up again while I’m...?”

“Just go,” Robin says. “You’ll feel better.”

The slim scratch of zipper, fabric gliding skin, a quiet rustle, and then the steady drizzle. A last gurgle. Another. Then a span of slow quiet.