Alone in the hospital elevator after a medical appointment.
The doors open on the sixth floor and directly across from me is another elevator, it’s doors opening to reveal just one person, too. We look at one another, this woman about my age and I. The plot device that launched a thousand Romcoms. A moment so random yet particular, that it doesn’t feel random at all. We know this. It’s the invisible line connecting us. We’re probably a little amused by it, but maybe a little saddened, too. Each of us in our 50’s– me with my oxygen, she with her IV pole. I wave over at her. A small, rueful wave. She smiles, looks down and away, waves back. Our losses connect for just a moment, and then the doors close, and we vanish, ghosts falling away to the past.
