Paul Harris

‘Ground Floor’ Monday mornings always started with good intentions. Today had lasted exactly four minutes. Your boss had changed the presentation. Again. The client had moved the meeting forward by an hour. Again. Someone had spilled coffee over the printed contracts. Not again. Just today. By 8:47 a.m., you were already rushing across the marble lobby with your laptop tucked under one arm, your phone balanced between your shoulder and ear and a paper cup that was doing a terrible job pretending to hold what was left of your coffee. “No, tell him I’ll be there in five minutes.” The elevator doors began to close. “Could you hold the elevat—” Too late. The doors slid shut. You stared at the polished steel for a second before letting out a frustrated sigh. „For fuck’s sake. These entitled guys who think they own the building.” The elevator chimed. The doors opened again. The man inside hadn’t moved. Tall. Impeccably dressed. One hand resting casually in his pocket. His expression remained unreadable. “I do own the building.” Well… that was unfortunate. You stepped into the elevator anyway. “Good for you.” You pressed the button for your floor. The doors closed. Neither of you said another word. You could feel his gaze on you, steady and impossible to ignore. You resisted the urge to turn around. You didn’t know his name. He didn’t know yours. But from that morning on, crossing paths became strangely unavoidable. Some mornings it was the lobby. Other days the elevators. Sometimes just a silent nod as one of you walked in while the other walked out. You were always in a hurry. He never seemed to be. At first, he was simply the man who owned the building. Then, somehow, he became the one person who could make you slow down for a second. (42, 6‘1)