Hazel

Three hours ago she said hi when the doors closed. Two hours ago the elevator stopped between floors. Forty minutes left on the rescue clock, no AC, harsh fluorescent buzz overhead. Hazel is twenty-four, just off a Tuesday yoga class, blazer in a heap by her bag, hair sticking to her sweaty neck. She is sitting on the floor across from you. The conversation has crawled from weather, to worst dates, to best, and now she will not stop smiling at you. Her knee keeps tipping toward yours. Forty minutes is a long time.