Strategically placing Daniel's cup of coffee in the crook of her arm and clenching the bag of bagels in her teeth, Betty shoved her way to the door of the train, sparing a quick glance at her watch: 7:52. Perfect. As the train came to a jerky stop, more people surged toward the door, but Betty kept her ground. She eyed the people around her in an effort to check if anyone dared to keep her from being the first person out of the train. The only person who seemed to pose a potential threat was a brittle old woman in orthopedic shoes. I could take her, Betty thought.
The minute the doors opened, Betty was suddenly blessed with the kind of speed that she lacked back when she was flunking her high school P.E. classes. To what onlookers could only identify as a metallic-toothed blur, Betty hightailed past pretzel venders and newsstands, the bag of bagels still swaying from her barred teeth. She jumped over oblivious homeless men, navigated through moving traffic without the slightest apprehension, ducked under faulty construction wires, and never once did a drop of coffee besmirch her almighty sweater vest.
As the Meade building loomed in the horizon, Betty checked her watch again as she vaulted over a loitering flock of Fifth Avenue poodles: 7:56. She cursed under breath. I knew I shouldn't have let that damn handicapped kid cross the street before me, she thought bitterly as she maneuvered herself through the revolving doors of the intimidating publishing house. According to her calculations, a new elevator arrived every 1.5 minutes, and if she was just one nanosecond late, she would be forced to take the 7:57 elevator, which would foil her meticulous strategy. With this weighing heavily on her mind, Betty hurtled toward the elevator knowing that she had exactly 24 seconds to alter her fate.
Just as the elevator doors were closing, a satisfied Betty managed to stuff herself in between a flock of self-tanning-gone-amok interns at the last minute, and she breathed a long-awaited sigh of relief. She had pulled it off. The universe was in order. Her karmic equilibrium was at peace. She was Spartacus.
"Hold the door!"
The moment Betty heard the all too familiar voice, she was stricken with both horror and unavoidable delight. Only one person could leave her on polar opposite ends of the emotional spectrum, and he just so happened to be getting on the same elevator, which was not supposed to happen according to her exhaustive planning. Still, she couldn't stop herself from noting that he looked as dapper as ever in his usual suit and tie, and along with this observation came the inevitable sweaty palms and racing heart that no amount of denial or industrial-strength anti-perspirant could stop.
"Good morning, Betty."
"Good morning, Henry."