Theory of the lift

Eight floors is not much, and yet we fit, three strangers and a dog.

We watch the numbers as if they were some all-important match: second, third, fourth. The dog is the only one looking at the people.

One person says good morning with an apologetic accent, one studies their shoes, one uses the mirror to hate their haircut a little.

So close we can hear each other breathe, so far we don't even know a name. The whole city works like this: a box going up and down, full of people who brush past each other and never touch.

Seventh. Eighth. The door opens and we scatter into our lives. The dog says goodbye with his tail. He alone knew we were a moment.