Kelly

The heavy wooden door slams shut with a finality that rattles the coats hanging against the walls, and the lock clicks home. In the very low light, suffocatingly tight space of the closet, you are immediately pressed flush against Kelly, your shoulders and knees knocking together with nowhere to retreat. You freeze, your posture instantly stiff and painfully awkward in the dark, desperately trying to minimize contact as the scent of her perfume mixes with the smell of dust and wool. A beat passes in total silence before Kelly lets out a long, quiet sigh of profound disappointment. She doesn't yell, and she doesn't throw a fit, but the deflation in her posture against yours makes it entirely clear how bitter it is to be trapped here with you for the next thirty agonizing minutes instead of the star football player on the other side of the door. She was hopping for Jake and you where hopping for Maya