Elevator Rides by Peter Baltensperger

It had been raining all morning, a light spring rain. Jillian turned the corner at Rideau and Main and promptly bumped into Bronwen, one of her best college friends she hadn’t seen in years. Both had their umbrellas pulled down over their faces even though it wasn’t raining anymore. They were lucky: the collision could have been much worse than it was. So it is with chance encounters. Luck happens at the oddest times, even though there is no such thing. We all live the way we live because of the way we live.

Jillian and Bronwen decided to celebrate their reunion by going for an elevator ride. As soon as they were in the car going up, they dropped their umbrellas on the floor and flung their arms around each other. Soft music was playing from an invisible speaker. They kissed each other passionately, eager tongues intertwining like mad, hungry snakes, renewing their friendship. They pressed their bodies together so they could feel their breasts rubbing against each other through the thin fabric of their blouses and bras, still slightly damp from the rain.

Wild horses were charging across a steppe into the rising full moon. That, too, is part of the cosmic ups and downs, part of the way we live.

Nobody else bumped into anyone else that day. Hubert turned the same corner with his umbrella closed and walked past the display windows of the “Rideau Clothing Boutique”. All the mannequins were naked, waiting for the latest fashions. Although he was focused on going where he was going, as he always was, he slowed his steps and looked at the mannequins long enough to imprint the shapes of their perfect bodies on his mind. It was a typical male reaction and quite understandable, even though it wasn’t raining anymore.

When he arrived where he was going, he walked into the building through the revolving doors, through the lobby, and into the elevator. As soon as he was in the car going up, he opened his umbrella and pretended to be out in the rain. He liked playing games. He was still thinking about the mannequins.

Jillian was already in the car. She opened her own umbrella and joined him under his. She knew how to play her own games. Flinging their free arms around each other, they kissed passionately, tongues snaking, probing, tasting. Jillian moaned deep inside as she pressed her lithe body against his until he could feel her hardening nipples through her thin blouse and bra. He could smell the lingering dampness of her clothes against his chest, her crotch gyrating lustily against his. So it is, sometimes, too.

In another town, it was raining all afternoon. People were scurrying along the sidewalks underneath a varicolored sea of umbrellas, faint thunder somewhere far away. Nobody bumped into anyone turning a corner anywhere. It could have been coincidence, but things rarely are.

© 2011 Peter Baltensperger

Peter Baltensperger is a Canadian writer of Swiss origin and the author of ten books of poetry, fiction, and non-fiction. His work has appeared in print and on-line in several hundred publications around the world over the past several decades. He writes, and has been writing all this life, because he is driven to and because it lends a special significance to his quest. He makes his home in London, Canada with his wife Viki and their two cats and a tortoise.

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