The flickering fluorescent lights above seemed to mock Clara with their erratic pulses. She tugged at the collar of her blouse, a futile attempt to create some airflow. The air in the elevator was thick, stale, and smelled faintly of burnt coffee. Across from her, Mark, from accounting, hadn't uttered a word. This was precisely the problem. She'd told him, at length, about her disastrous dating life during the company picnic last week. He'd listened with a polite smile. Now, trapped in a metal box with him, she just wanted the earth to swallow her whole.
A bead of sweat trickled down her temple, and she swiped at it, hoping he didn't notice. Then she heard the familiar rumble of her stomach. Lunch was a distant memory. Avoiding his gaze, she focused on a particularly scuff-marked panel of the elevator wall.
“So…,” she began, her voice cracking. “Do you think… they’ll get us out soon?” She winced immediately. That was a stupid question. He simply nodded, his eyes scanning the ceiling.
Her cheeks felt like they were on fire. The image of her talking about her ex-boyfriend's obsession with taxidermy, the way she had described it with such animated hand gestures, replayed in her mind. She considered feigning a sudden illness, but feared it would draw more attention.