The elevator is gratuitously silent three days before Christmas. Just before the doors close her rushing footfalls break my peace. Consider not holding the doors;  I feel guilty, but only a little.  We’re both late on a day when the few dutiful unbeautiful show up for work.  She is on her phone — on speaker — Three options: Bolt back through the closing doors; Dig for my buds; Endure. Maybe she’ll get off early. It’s only 19 floors. Things I tell myself.  Defaulting to Endure for the sake of my coffee; my juggled breakfast. “I just wanted to sleep.”  The voice says from Wherever.  She punches 23.  Doors close.  I stare at my shoes. “But he wanted sex all night long.” There’s a scuff on the left side of my right shoe. Where did that come from?  19 — I exit — Invisible on every floor.  An earworm…