“Are you calling me stupid?” I snap. Anyone could have trouble with these damn buttons, not just a person with dyslexia.
He looks pointedly at the buttons. “Stupid is as stupid does.”
I grind my teeth, painfully. “You’re an asshole. And you’ve watched Forrest Gump one too many times.”
His lips flatten. “That movie wasn’t the origin of that saying. It’s from Latin: Stultus est sicut stultus facit.”
I roll my eyes. “What kind of pretentious stultus quotes Latin?”
The steel in his eyes is so cold I bet my tongue would get stuck if I tried to lick his eyeball. “I don’t know. Maybe the ‘idiot’ who happens to like everything related to Rome, including their numerals.”
My jaw drops open. “You made this decision?” I wave toward the elevator buttons.
He nods.
Shit. He probably heard me earlier, which means I started the insults. In my defense, he did make an idiotic choice.
I exhale a frustrated breath. “If you’re such an expert on Roman numerals, you could’ve told me which one to press.”
He crosses his arms over his chest. “You didn’t ask me.”
My hackles rise again. “Ask you? You looked like you might bite my head off for just existing.”
“That’s because you delayed—”
The elevator jerks to a stop, and the lights around us dim.
We both stare at the doors.
They stay shut.
He turns to me and narrows his eyes accusingly. “What did you press now?”
“Me? How? I’ve been facing you. Unfortunately.”
With an annoying headshake, he stalks toward the panel with the buttons, and I have to leap away before I get trampled.
“You probably pressed something earlier,” he mutters. “Why else would we be stuck?”
Why is it illegal to choke people? Just a few seconds with my hands on his throat would be a calming exercise.
Instead, I glare at his back, which is blocking my view of what he’s doing, if anything. “The poor elevator probably just committed suicide over these Roman numerals. It knew that when someone sees things like L and XL, they think of T-shirt sizes for Neanderthal types like you. And don’t get me started on that XXX button, which is a clear reference to porn. It creates a hostile work env—”
“Can you shut up so I can get us out of this?” he snaps.
His words bring home the reality of our situation: it’s been over a minute, and the doors are still closed.
Dear saguaro, am I really stuck here? With this guy? What about my interview?
“Silence, finally,” he says with satisfaction and moves to the side, so I see him jam his finger at the “help” button.
“It’s a miracle that’s not in Latin,” I can’t help but say. “Or Klingon.”
“Hello?” he says into the speaker under the button, his voice dripping with irritation.
No reply, not even static.
“Anyone there?” His annoyance is clearly rising to new heights. “I’m late for an important meeting.”
“And I’m late for an interview,” I chime in, in case it matters.
He pauses to arch a thick eyebrow at me. “An interview? For what position?”
I stand straighter. “I’m sure the likes of you don’t realize this, but the plants in this building don’t take care of themselves.”
Wait. Have I said too much? Could he torpedo my interview—assuming this elevator snafu hasn’t done it already? What does he do here, anyway—design ridiculous elevators? That can’t be a full-time job, can it?
“A tree hugger,” he mutters under his breath. “That tracks.”
What an asshole. I’ve never hugged a tree in my life. I’m too busy talking to them.
He returns his scowling attention to the “help” button—though now I’m thinking it should’ve been labeled as “no help.”
“Hello? Can you hear me?” he shouts. “Answer now, or you’re fired.”
I roll my eyes. “Is it a good idea to be a dick to the person who can save us?”
He blows out an audible breath. “It doesn’t matter. The button must be malfunctioning. They wouldn’t dare ignore me.”
I pull out my trusty phone, a nice and simple Nokia 3310. “Full of yourself much?”
He stares at my hands incredulously. “So that’s why the elevator got stuck. It went through a time warp and transported us to 2008.”
I frown at the lack of reception on my Nokia. “This version was released in 2017.”
“It still looks dumber than a brain-dead crash test dummy.” He proudly pulls an iPhone from his pocket. “This is what a phone should look like.”
I scoff. “That’s what constant distraction looks like. Anyway, if your iNotSoSmartPhone—trademarked—is so great, it should have some reception, right?”
He glances at his screen, but I can tell he already knows the truth: no reception for his darling either.
Still, I can’t resist. “See? Your genius of a phone is just as useless. All it’s good for is turning people into social-media-checking zombies.”
He hides the device, like a protective parent. “On top of all your endearing qualities, you’re a technophobe too?”
I debate throwing my Nokia at his head but decide it’s not worth shelling out sixty-five bucks for a replacement. “Just because I don’t want to be distracted doesn’t mean I’m a technophobe.”
“Actually, my phone is great at blocking out distractions.” He puts the headphones back over his ears. “See?” He presses play, and I hear the faint riffs of heavy metal.
“Very mature,” I mouth at him.
“Sorry,” he says overly loudly. “I can’t hear any distractions.”
Fine. Whatever. At least he has good taste in music. My cactus and I are big fans of Metallica, which is what I think he’s listening to.
I begin to pace back and forth.
I’m stuck, and I’m late. If this elevator jam doesn’t resolve itself in the next minute or two, I can pretty much kiss the new job goodbye—and by extension, my tuition money. No tuition money means no botany degree, which has been my dream for the last few years.
By saguaro’s juices, this sucks really bad.
I sneak a glance at the hottie—I mean, asshole.
What would he say about someone with dyslexia wanting a college degree? Probably that I’d need a university that uses coloring books. In truth, even coloring books wouldn’t help that much—I can never stay inside those stupid lines.
I sigh and look away, increasingly worried. My dreams aside, what if the elevator stays stuck for a while?
The most immediate problem is my growing need to pee—but paradoxically, a longer-term worry will be finding liquids to drink.
I wonder… If you’re thirsty enough, does your body reabsorb the water from the bladder? Also, could I MacGyver a filter to reclaim the water in my urine with what I have on me? Maybe through cat hair?
I shiver, and only partially from the insane AC that’s somehow reaching me even in here. In the short term, it would be so much better if it were hot instead of cold. I’d sweat out the liquids and not need to pee, though I guess I’d die of thirst sooner. I sneak an envious glance at the large stranger. I bet he has a bladder the size of a blimp. He also has a stainless-steel bottle that’s probably filled with water that he likely won’t share.
There’s also the question of food. I don’t have anything edible with me, apart from a can of cat food… and, theoretically, the cat herself.
No. I’d sooner eat this stranger than poor Atonic.
As if psychic, the stranger’s stomach growls.
Crap. With this guy being so big and mean, he’d probably eat the cat. After that, he’d eat me… and not in a fun way.
I’m so, so screwed.