‘Which is your stop ma’am? Ma’am… Miss… Are you okay? Do we need to call someone? ‘ he gave a small shove and her eyes widened like a deer caught by the headlights.
‘Which is your stop ma’am? You haven’t pressed any floor number .’
’21st floor. That’s my stop.’
Her voice was smooth with a slight accent which could not be quickly placed. She was also fidgety and her right foot was incessantly tapping a wayward beat on the marble floor. If the floor could speak it would have said, “Get a hold of yourself woman!” Her pale knuckles also bore the brunt of her anxiety as they were continuously snapped.
The 21st floor was the scariest floor in the complex and stories about the horrors that dotted the particular floor made up the menu of wonderful lunch talks. It was said that there the transition from sludge to gold was made. The walls were made of glass refined in Cuba and the drapes sown from freshly picked silk of the worms in China. Exquisiteness wafted through every corner and each detail was intricately designed by master craftsmen. The pomp was to hide the pain that dwelled within the greater walls of the 21st floor. She was pretty, a delicate kind of beautiful. He hoped she could come out of it victorious.
There was so much noise once she opened the double glass doors. It was chaos meet your father bedlam, your mother disarray and the rest of the pandemonium clan. Nothing was in its rightful place and it sent her head into a spiral. Reality always had a way of saving her from her unfounded fears. Her once erratic heart was now bleeding at the sight of what lay before her. This was the hallowed and the revered floor. Shoot me please!