Four Inches
by Miriam N. Kotzin and Bill Turner
Four inches couldn’t possibly feel closer. Four inches is a gulf between them. Rachel glided into Kevin’s space. People keep a certain distance in elevators. The violation upsets him, but he can’t resist her presence.
Rotate ninety degrees, he thinks, and this would be perfect. He wants to inhale her. This is a new feeling for him.
“Are you uncomfortable?” She asks.
“I’m fine,” he lies.
He can see flecks of black in her blue eyes. She’s an irresistible force in a tiny package. He’s a giant. She’s backed him into a corner. Her smile brushes his confidence aside.
This is what elevators were made for, he thinks, wondering about how to stop this one without alarms and rescuers. Is there a camera? He takes a quick look, but cannot see above his own head.
He leans toward her, wants to kiss her. She leans back, maintaining what feels like precisely four inches. He blushes. She’s taunting me, he thinks.
“I’m sorry, did you want something?” Her voice is light.
“No, ” he answers, hoping that if there is a camera above is head, it isn’t on, and if it is, that the recorder’s out of tape.
“You know,” he says, “Your eyes look a deeper blue than usual.” He leans forward, pretending to look closer. Eight floors to go on this ride. No time at all, he’s thinking, when an angel intervenes and the elevator jerks to a stop.
She takes her finger off the stop button. The flecks disappear as she leans forward and closes her eyes, gently pressing her lips to his. She stands on the tips of her toes. He wraps his arms around her waist and pulls her tight.
She smells and tastes like vanilla.
She tenderly bites his lower lip as they separate, leans over and pulls out the emergency stop button. “Before they come to get us,” she says, and grins. They’re four inches apart.
© 2004 Miriam N. Kotzin and Bill Turner