It was so unexpected that I really didn't know how to react, at first -- before instinct overtook my inhibitions, as it tends to do eventually. I'm not the sort of person this happens to: shy, awkward, and hard to get beneath the skin of. This is the tale of when someone not only got under my skin, but effortlessly stripped it all off and scribbled all over whatever was underneath. It is, of course, completely fictitious, but one mustn't let that get in the way of a good story.
We ended up sharing a lift, as you do, at the city Travelodge: the type of place you book when you don't want to spend too much, and when you have too much to think about to worry about luxury. It's a dull and predictable place to stay, not an exotic retreat. It's also anonymous, with computerised check-ins and swipe-cards on the doors. Nothing of any interest happens there. Everyone knows this, and therefore everyone expects exactly that. One simply doesn't interact with fellow residents; one hires a room, and one sleeps in it.
I'd just got in from a quick walk around the area, after a long, hot and crowded few hours on the trains. Not bothering to look around, I walked in, past the anonymous foyer, and into the lift area. I just noticed, from the corner of my eye, movement behind me, and managed to stop the door swinging shut as someone rushed up. I shouldn't have, I know; security, and all that. Nonetheless, I did. Perhaps it was a little touch of rebellion against the soulless corporate hotel. More likely, it's the old-fashioned chivalry that overrules any fears of interlopers or assassins.
Whatever it was, she thanked me, and I glanced at her for the first time, in order to flash a brief smile. The first thing I noticed was an intensity in her eyes as she looked back, entirely too strong to be justified by merely holding a door open. Her head was tilted downwards slightly, with a quirked mouth as she stepped slowly through the door. She was perhaps 40 (which meant that I couldn't possibly have asked), with rich brown hair falling past her shoulders. She wore a long floral dress and a battered brown jacket, with minimalist, strappy sandals. The dress was demurely cut in a V-neck, revealing pale skin marked by a few freckles below the smooth curve of her neck. I noticed this in a fraction of a second, you understand, rather than by staring. I also noticed her swaying hips, elegant movement, and the movement of her breasts against her dress as she shifted her weight. It was hard not to.
We looked at each other, eyes locked, but saying nothing; speech would have been difficult for me, to be honest. She wasn't glamorous or an epitome of classical beauty, but still, my breath had caught in my my throat, and I wouldn't have had a clue what to say. Banal comments about the weather (this is Britain, after all) would be sacrilege. I managed, I'm proud to say, to respond with, "You're very welcome," sounding very much as though I meant it. Which, although my brain wasn't really making any sense, was absolutely true.
The lift beeped (a novelty; half the time they don't work here), and instinct took over as I bowed and gestured that she should take priority. She had to step around me, but not by much, and she chose to slip past well within the reach of my arms, her jacket brushing lightly against me. I could smell a faint hint of sweat and shampoo. My eyes must have been slightly wide, for her smile broadened and she almost laughed. It's ridiculous, really: two grown adults, complete strangers, behaving like we were in some sort of romantic comedy. It was this realisation that made me relax, the magnetic hold broken, and the realisation that much as this had the makings of a teenage fantasy, it was indeed purely fantastical. The sexual overtones in her glances were obviously just her playing with ideas in her mind, and certainly wouldn't lead to anything. Perhaps she just liked seeing men want her.
Well, it would have been rude to disappoint her. I followed her into the lift, facing her on the other side of the doorway. Part of me craved being closer to her, to carry on this impossible role-play scenario, to be able to feel the warmth of her next to me. The other part wanted to be able to see her, to see whether the tension could ratchet up even further.
"Which floor?" I asked. She pursed her lips briefly, amused by some private thought, then said, "Third."
"As you wish, Madam," I responded, keeping up the chivalric air, and half-pretending to be a lift attendant in a five-star venue. The cigarette burns in the plastic walls made that unlikely, but that was all part of the charm. I was wearing a loose, white shirt and moderately smart trousers that could almost be formal, so she could go along with it if she wanted to. Instead, she wanted to keep watching me, almost speaking, but somehow not getting there. Her mouth opened a little, once or twice, and I caught a glimpse of the tip of her tongue... then she would stop, flick her hair back, tilt her head, and just look back at me, a small smile curving her lips. I must have seemed very attentive for the whole brief journey, as I doubt I looked away from her the whole time. I hope my thoughts weren't too obvious in my expression, but I fear that they were. It was one of those rare occasions when I wouldn't have minded the lift getting stuck somewhere, for a good long time.
Alas, we reached floor three in a matter of seconds, in reality. The door opened. I looked at it, and then back at her, resigned disappointment probably quite clear in my eyes, even though I was perfectly aware that we had reached full time in this little game. In the lingering seconds, she pushed away from the wall and stepped forwards. Her face was unreadable, as if she were weighing options and couldn't decide what to do.
In the end, she said nothing, broke eye contact, and just stepped out of the lift. The disappointment was even stronger than I'd expected. A split second later, though, I felt her hand close around my wrist. She didn't stop or turn around, but with an unexpected strength, she pulled me with her. That said, for some reason I didn't try to resist, even though this little manoeuvre surprised me as much as you can probably imagine. My feet moved of their own volition.
