Sideways

pizzabox.jpgI’m in the elevator, returning from walking Chelsea up and down Juniper Street.

The bell pings, and we stop on the Upper Terrace. A dark-haired man enters. His brows are furled. His lips are bunched into a thoughtful frown. He is aware enough of his surroundings to step in, wave his keycard at the sensor, and press a floor number, but his thoughts are clearly elsewhere.

Under his arm is a pizza box, carried vertically, as one might carry a large hardback book. The lower edge and lid of the box are dark with large, glistening spots of grease.

Chelsea stares. I stare.

Sensing this, he snaps out of his reverie and gives us a glance.

“There a pizza in there?” I ask.

He looks down, as though noticing, for the first time, that he is carrying a pizza. He raises an eyebrow. “That’s not safe, is it?”

I shake my head. The bell pings. The doors snap open. The man departs, still carrying the box under one arm.

The doors slide shut. Chelsea sniffs at a spot of translucent grease shimmering like a jewel on the elevator floor.

pizzabox.jpgI’m in the elevator, returning from walking Chelsea up and down Juniper Street.

The bell pings, and we stop on the Upper Terrace. A dark-haired man enters. His brows are furled. His lips are bunched into a thoughtful frown. He is aware enough of his surroundings to step in, wave his keycard at the sensor, and press a floor number, but his thoughts are clearly elsewhere.

Under his arm is a pizza box, carried vertically, as one might carry a large hardback book. The lower edge and lid of the box are dark with large, glistening spots of grease.

Chelsea stares. I stare.

Sensing this, he snaps out of his reverie and gives us a glance.

“There a pizza in there?” I ask.

He looks down, as though noticing, for the first time, that he is carrying a pizza. He raises an eyebrow. “That’s not safe, is it?”

I shake my head. The bell pings. The doors snap open. The man departs, still carrying the box under one arm.

The doors slide shut. Chelsea sniffs at a spot of translucent grease shimmering like a jewel on the elevator floor.

Mark McElroy

I'm a husband, mystic, writer, media producer, creative director, tinkerer, blogger, reader, gadget lover, and pizza fiend.

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Who Wrote This?

Mark McElroy

I'm a husband, mystic, writer, media producer, creative director, tinkerer, blogger, reader, gadget lover, and pizza fiend.

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