Going Down by Ron Eames

 

“God FUCKING dammit,” is what Miriam thinks to herself, recalling that the Shabbat elevator runs after five on Fridays at just the moment it becomes too late for her to block the doors and get off. They close like lips, pursing from platform to purplish-red LCD panel at the top, just below the center. Now it reads 6, and god fucking dammit, it’s going to stop on every floor.

So it’s on 5 the girl gets on, pushing in her stroller little Mordecai, fat and fast asleep, and already dressed like an electronics salesman.

“Gotta love Brooklyn,” Miriam thinks, loud enough in her head that the girl looks over, meeting eyes like the virgin Moses would a Burning Bush. She shivers.

The girl looks away. Miriam’s bush burns.

“Going down?”

Alannah Farrell

Alannah Farrell

It hits the cultural language barrier hard, falling flat on the floor between them. The girl’s eyes roll, and so do Miriam’s, down to the girl’s ankles, and how they must be sweating under the second skin of black pantyhose.

She snickers, following the line from the back of the girl’s flats up the black wool of her long skirt, slashing over the sick sickle curve of what—God knows—is even legal. Miriam bites her lip, sucking down the spit she squeezes out, and the doors open.

Fresher air comes in from the fourth floor, just enough for Miriam to feel her own perspiration.

Between floors four and three, Miriam thinks about her lips buried in the pocket where the girl’s soft jawline meets her neck. One hand reaches around her back, while the other defies the hold her buttons have on her shirt. It plunges in and over her padded bra. She kisses deeper.

Floor 3. The girl shifts her weight. Nobody gets on.

But in Miriam’s mind she’s getting the girl off. The stroller drifting towards the corner opposing the one she’s ravishing the girl in, fingertips probing at her swollen nipple in one hand, pulling the bottom of her blouse out of the waist of her skirt. Their faces pressed up against each other in a war of keeping words from coming out.

On Floor 2, an elderly woman with a walker ambles on. Miriam holds back a moan, all but lost in the vision of peeling back the skirt over the sick sickle curve of her ass, a hand on the girl’s lower back bending her forward, up against all of the lighted buttons. She buries her nose in her soaked, polyester panties and inhales the bittersweet aroma of her impurity. Oh, but to take her in the mikveh would be an unspeakable sin.

The door opens on the ground floor and the girl quickly strolls out, followed by the old woman, ambling. Miriam takes this chance to let out her heavy breathing. To herself, she decides, I can’t go out like this. As the metal doors shut and she takes the elevator back up, floor by floor, to comforts of her private apartment, she feels like Moses.

 
MacKenzie Peck