Abigail M. Schilling

--Amanda Mae

***

You always asked me why I loved them more than you, gesturing wildly at all the space beyond us. Always the same question, always the same arm flail.

It's just their stories I love, I would say. I don't even know them.

But you would watch them all day long if you could.

Sometimes you would sit with me, and we'd watch the strangers have conversations.

See, they're more interesting than us because they're having a conversation.

And you'd looked at the couple huddled in an entrance to stay away from the wind, coats flapping around them, shouting so they could hear.

We could be having a conversation, you'd plead.

And I'd say, tell me what is more interesting than these two people, who ride the elevator together every single day--for at least two years--finally having conversation?

How do you know that?

Just look at them.

You'd sigh. Stand up, straighten your jacket, crumple your napkin, and say you had work to do.

I always stood up too, well, half up anyway, kissed you by your ear, and returned to my seat, my eyes never leaving my subject. I'd hear the door jingle as you left, and I'd be jotting down your last words, and my last words, and their last words.