Borrowed Dress, Borrowed Air

“Damn it! My luck literally could not get worse tonight.”

“Is that what we’re calling it, luck? Or maybe we should call it ‘ran into the service elevator like you were fleeing a crime scene’?”

“Is you’re about to tell me this is my fault, take a number and get comfortable.”

“I would never. I’d only point out that guests don’t normally sprint into the service hall unless something is actively on fire.”

“Nothing’s on fire. It’s just…white linens, champagne and a man who thinks ‘forever’ is a brand name he can trademark.”

“Ah. One of those.”

“One of what?”

“One of the men whose smile is a trap, and the trap is he’s convinced you’ll thank him for it later.”

“Ha. That’s good. It’s worse when you can recognize the trap by the way it’s polished.”

“Harsh.”

“Accurate.”

“Still harsh, though, and you’re still not supposed to be back here.”

“I’m aware, don’t worry.”

“Then why are you?”

“Because the ballroom is full of eyes and I can feel them on my teeth.”

“On your teeth?”

“It’s an expression.”

“That’s the most expensive expression I’ve heard all night.”

“Your tone is an expensive expression…”

“My tone is free. It came with the uniform.”

“Uniform implies this is something you chose to be a part of.”

“I chose rent. My landlord doesn’t accept ‘potential’ as payment, which is tragic because I have so gosh darn much of it.”

“You just managed to say ‘potential’ with contempt.”

“I said it with vast and overflowing experience.”

“Are we moving? Thank–”

“We’re–”

“Did it just drop?”

“It didn’t drop.”

“It absolutely dropped.”

“It settled.”

“Sure. It settled in a decidedly downward fashion.”

“I don’t know if you know this, but some elevators do occasionally travel downward.”

“Not when they’re not supposed to.”

“You want me to lie to you?”

“I want you to fix it.”

“Same.”

“Are you the one who fixes it?”

“No.”

“Then why are you acting like you’re in charge?”

“Because I’m trying to keep you from panicking, and because panicking in a metal box doesn’t make it magically less of a metal box.”

“I’m not panicking. I’m being…appropriately concerned. Try the button.”

“I already did.”

“Try it again. Press it harder.”

“That’s not how buttons work.”

“Ugh! It is when you’re rich.”

“That was almost funny.”

“Was that a laugh?”

“That was air escaping my body in disbelief.”

“It sounded suspiciously human.”

“Careful. You might mistake me for a real person.”

“I know you’re a person…I can smell the fryer oil and resentment from here.”

“It’s lemon sanitizer and realism, thanks. And for the record, I’m not trying to be an asshole. I get that this is not how you wanted to spend your night, but at least they pay me either way.”

“...I’m mad at the situation. You’re just…conveniently nearby. Not your fault.”

“Convenient. That’s the nicest thing you’ve said so far.”

“Don’t get excited.”

“I wouldn’t dare. I’m trapped in a box with a woman in a ball gown who looks like she might bite my head off and still call it good manners.”

“I don’t bite.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I don’t. I promise.”

“Maybe not, but you do have that rich-person posturing. Like you could win an argument without raising your voice.”

“That’s not a rich trait. Women don’t get to have that ‘tone’ the way men do. We have to be more careful to survive.”

“What exactly would you need to survive, brunch? High tea?”

“Rooms like that. People who decide your life like they’re arranging flowers and expect you to smile while they do it.”

“...Okay. You’re right, that does sound rough.”

“It is.”

“And yet you’re wearing…that.”

“Don’t say ‘that’ like it’s a costume.”

“It is a costume. It’s fabric and expectation stitched together and it costs more than my car, so yeah, it’s a costume.”

“It’s couture.”

“Same difference.”

“It’s not the same difference.”

“It’s the same from where I’m standing.”

“Fine. Let me recalibrate and maybe we can start again?”

“The way you talk doesn’t match where you were running.”

“No. I guess it doesn’t.”

“So which is it: did you really need to get away that badly, or are you so used to doors opening for you that you assumed this one would too?”

“Can’t both be true? And for the record, the dress is borrowed.”

“Borrowed?”

“My stylist. Her job is to make me look like I belong, and I can’t help but notice you’re offended by how well she did.”

“That almost sounds depressing.”

“It is. In a very efficient way. She’s good at her job.”

“Try your phone, mine’s in the kitchen.”

“No service.”

“Emergency call?”

“Tried, it beeped for a moment, and now it’s stopped beeping, which seems about right.”

“So what now?”

“Now we wait.”

“I hate waiting.”

“Could’ve fooled me. You look like you were born leaning on a wall.”

“I’m not good at it, just practiced.”

“Same thing.”

“Not really.”

“Are you going to correct me all night?”

“If we’re here all night, then yes, absolutely. I’ll do it just to pass the time.”

“Do you think we’ll be here all night?”

“No.”

“That sounded like a lie.”

“That sounded like me trying not to let you spiral.”

“I’m not spiraling.”

“You are, but you’re doing it very politely, which I respect.”

“I am not–”

“You are. Your hands keep doing that clutch-and-release thing on the fabric.”

“We’re trapped in a suspended tin can. I’m allowed to touch my own dress.”

“I didn’t say you weren’t. I said you were scared.”

“...Fine. I’m scared.”

“There we go.”

“Don’t sound so pleased with yourself.”

“I’m not pleased. I’m relieved. Say it and it gets smaller.”

“That’s a cheap trick.”

“It’s free. The good ones usually are.”

“Your turn.”

“My turn for what?”

“Truth. You told me you chose rent. That’s a headline. Give me the rest of the article.”

“Fine. I’m moving trays of tiny food for people who take one bite, film the whole thing, and call it an experience, because if I stack enough shifts, maybe I can afford a ladder out of this shithole.”

“That’s not a why, that’s just a rant.”

“Tonight they’re serving ‘nostalgia’ on a spoon and charging nine hundred dollars a seat. Nine. Hundred. If that’s not a why, then I don’t know what is.”

“Okay…that is obscene.”

“It’s even worse when you’re watching it. Worse when you’re watching it while your brain is doing math you hate.”

“So where does the ladder go?”

“Art school. Hopefully. If hopefully doesn’t get evicted first.”

“Of course.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It fits, that’s all. You’ve still got paint under your nails.”

“...Yeah. Can’t dress me up enough to get rid of the poor I guess. I draw, I paint, I do whatever I can afford without selling a kidney. And I have considered it.”

“Do you have pictures on your phone? I'd love to see your work.”

“Still in the kitchen, remember? Besides, not on a first elevator date. At least buy me a nine-hundred dollar spoon of nostalgia first.”

“This is not a date.”

“You ran away from a man in public into a private box with a stranger. If it’s not a date, it’s at least a very specific choice.”

“It wasn’t intended to be romantic. It was intended to be bad decision-making.”

“Romance and bad decision-making often go hand in hand.”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Be charming. It’s confusing.”

“I’m not trying to be charming. You’re the one smiling.”

“I’m not smiling.”

“You are.”

“Stop watching my face.”

“That’s not fair, there’s nothing else in here worth looking at.”

“...What kind of art?”

“Sketches. And Portraits. A lot of faces really. The way people pretend. The moment the mask slips and they forget they’re being observed.”

“You find a lot of people are pretending?”

“Everyone.”

“That includes you.”

“That sounds like you’re flirting.”

“I’m not.”

“You are, a little.”

“No.

“Yes.”

“...Maybe.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not celebrating. Just filing it away as evidence that you’re not made entirely of porcelain.”

“I’m not.”

“You sure look like you are.”

“That’s the point.”

“Really, that’s the point?”

“Say it again, slower.”

“That’s the point. Okay, I get it.”

“Do you always talk like you’re walking into a punchline?”

“Do you always talk like you’re holding a knife behind your back?”

“It’s not a knife.”

“Boundaries then?”

“Yeah, boundaries can be sharp. They have to be.”

“Who taught you that? The man out there?”

“A man like him. Same certainty that my ‘no’ is a negotiation, like it’s cute when I resist.”

“Gross.”

“Yeah…So I ran.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“Yeah. Good.”

“You don’t even know the whole story.”

“I know enough. You ran. That’s brave.”

“It doesn’t feel brave.”

“It never does.”

“...You talk like you’ve seen it all, how old are you?”

“Twenty-four.”

“You look older.”

“Thanks.”

“That’s not a compliment.”

“Oh I know. And you?”

“Twenty-six.”

“Twenty-six in that dress is dangerous. You look like you could set the whole room on fire and still look bored.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“But am I wrong?”

“...No.”

“See? The truth. Smaller.”

“You’re going to keep doing that aren’t you?”

“If I have to.”

“Do you have a name, or are we doing this anonymously?”

“James.”

“Celeste.”

“That’s a name that knows how to enter a room.”

“You’re mocking me.”

“I’m just appreciating the marketing.”

“I’d prefer it simpler.”

“Like James?”

“James could work.”

“Tell me what you want without telling me, Celeste.”

“I want the doors to open.”

“That’s boring, you can do better.”

“Fine…I want to not go back in there. I want to not feel like I’m leaving my skin behind every time someone touches my arm.”

“They touched your arm.”

“He did.”

“Did you tell him not to?”

“Yes, and he smiled like I was cute.”

“I hate that smile and I haven’t even seen it.”

“I’m sure you’ve seen its likeness…I want to stop being looked at like I’m a prize. What do you want, James?”

“Me?”

“You said truth.”

“My truth is boring.”

“Try me.”

“I want to pay for next semester without selling my blood.”

“I don’t think that’s boring.”

“Maybe not, but it’s common.”

“Common isn’t boring…do you have someone out there?”

“Does it matter?”

“It matters if they’re going to come looking for us.”

“Just my boss. How about your man?”

“Yes. He will. He doesn’t like unanswered questions.”

“What questions?”

“He asked if I was ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“To be his.”

“Gross.”

“It was quieter than that, which is part of what makes it worse. I said I needed air and he let me go because he thinks he owns the air too.”

“So you ran?”

“So I ran.”

“Good.”

“Stop saying good like you’re somehow saving me.”

“...I suppose I can’t save you?”

“James.”

“Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I’m sorry I said it out loud.”

“Better.”

“You are blushing though.”

“I’m warm. There’s a difference. Now stop.”

“You say stop like it’s a spell.”

“It’s the only one I know.”

“I know a few others.”

“Don’t.”

“You’re smiling again Celeste.”

“I hate you.”

“I don’t think you do.”

“Is that…the elevator? It moved.”

“It did. Don’t freak out.”

“I’m not freaking out.”

“You’re doing the fabric thing again.”

“Shut up. Why did it move?”

“Reset, probably. Or someone finally remembered we exist.”

“Don’t be mean. We need them.”

“I can be mean and grateful at the same time. It’s a skill I earned.”

“Art school should accept you based on that alone.”

“Art school doesn’t accept bitterness as a portfolio piece… Do you ever come to things like this on purpose? On your own I mean.”

“Sometimes.”

“Why?”

“My mother likes photos. She loves a picture where everyone looks like they belong."

“And you don’t?”

“No. I do. That’s the problem. I know how to play it. I just don’t want to play it forever.”

“Then don’t.”

“You say it like it’s so easy.”

“It’s not easy. But it is simple.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“Nothing’s comforting. You do it anyway.”

“God, you sound like you’ve been hurt.”

“We all have.”

“Not like you.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Put me in a story you pretend you already understand.”

“What if I’m trying to understand?”

“Then listen: I’m not rough around the edges because it’s cute. I’m rough because if I soften in the wrong room, I disappear.”

“...Okay.”

“And you’re not sharp because it’s cute either. You’re sharp because if you soften in the wrong room, they take more.”

“...Yeah.”

“So we have that in common.”

“We do.”

“Great. Now what?”

“Now we stop pretending we despise each other…”

“I never said I despised you.”

“You did with your eyes.”

“My eyes are expressive. You can’t hold that against me.”

“They’re practically lethal.”

“Good.”

“You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Saying good like you want to keep me.”

“...Celeste.”

“What?”

“Look, I’m not the guy who–”

“Oh my god, please don’t speech me.”

“I’m not giving a speech. I’m saying you don’t know me.”

“I know enough.”

“No, you know my name and my job and that I’m broke.”

“And you know my name and my dress and that I’m running.”

“And that you hate being owned.”

“And that you’re brave.”

“And tired.”

“...Fine. Maybe you know me a little.”

“Say something stupid, James.”

“Something stupid.”

“Grow up. No, something actually stupid.”

“Your dress looks like a snowdrift decided to become a weapon.”

“...That’s…annoyingly good.”

“What can I say, I’m an artist.”

“Do you want to draw me?”

“Do you want me to?”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“That’s also not a no.”

“If you drew me, what would you draw?”

“Your mouth when you pretend you’re bored. The place you keep swallowing your words like they’re dangerous.”

“I don’t swallow my words.

“You chew them first.”

“...James”

“I’ve been doing this job for three months. Before that I got fired from a coffee place for drawing customers, and I promised myself I’d keep my head down here.”

“But you didn’t.”

“I tried. Then you came in here like a comet, bright and loud and not asking permission, and now I can’t stop noticing.”

“...I like that you noticed.”

“I notice everything.”

“Will you get fired?”

“Probably.”

“That’s not okay.”

“It’s not okay, but it is real.”

“Tell me what you need.”

“I need the doors to open.”

“Besides that.”

“...I need you to not go back to him.”

“James, that’s reckless.”

“I thought it was bold.”

“Same thing.”

“Not the same thing. Fine, I need you to choose yourself.”

“Don’t make it sound like it’s for you.”

“It’s not for me.”

“...Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay. I won’t go back. Not tonight.”

“Good.”

“Stop–”

“Sorry.”

“And what do you need?”

“I need someone to look at me like I’m not just passing through their night.”

“That’s sad. But at least you were honest. Can I be honest with you too?”

“The floor is yours, Celeste.”

“I want to kiss you.”

“Celeste..”

“I said I’d be honest.”

“You don’t have to-”

“I do. I do, because if I don’t say it, I’ll walk out and I’ll smile and I’ll become her again.”

“...Okay.”

“Okay is not a yes.”

“It’s not a no.”

“If you kiss me, it can’t be a rescue. It can’t be a rebellion either. I want it to be real.”

“Was that real enough for you?”

“Definitely…I think you started the elevator up again. It’s going to open. And then the room will come back. And the eyes. And the music and the smiles and the pretending.”

“How about one more then? Just in case.”

“I can do that.”

“That was…even better. Celeste, if you walk out and you decide you don’t want this, I’ll let you.”

“I’ll let you too.”

“You’re funny. Don’t think. Just be here.”

“The doors are opening.”

“I know.”

“James?”

“Yeah?”

“If we walk out and someone asks what happened-”

“We tell them nothing.”

“And if he asks where I went?”

“You tell him you needed air.”

“And if he follows?”

“Then you keep walking.”

“And if he grabs my arm?”

“Then I stop being polite.”

“James!”

“What?”

“You’ll get fired.”

“I probably already am.”

“I don’t want you to get fired because of me.”

“Then don’t make me regret it.”

“I won’t.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

“Say it like you want me to remember it.”

“I promise, James.” After this, where do you go?”

“Back to work for now.”

“Don’t.”

“I have to.”

“You don’t have to tonight. You said you needed someone to look at you like you weren't just passing through their night.”

“...Yeah.”

“I’m not passing through.”

“Celeste…”

“I want to see your sketchbook.”

“It’s not a date.”

“It is absolutely a date.”

“Where?”

“Somewhere that doesn’t cost nine hundred dollars a plate.”

“I know a place.”

“Of course you do.”

“It’s not fancy.”

“Good. Great.”

“They make pie that tastes like someone loves you.”

“That sounds dangerous.”

“So you’ll come?”

“I will.”

“Say it like you want me to remember it.”

“I will, James.”

“Good.”

“Stop.”