Charlene I

“Radio Ga Ga?  Seriously?  Who thought it would be a good idea to turn that into elevator music?”… she said to absolutely no one as she stood alone in a box ascending to the roof level deck.  An absurd choice she thought, thinking back on the 1980s when Queen’s hit blared from radios everyone.  It was an era when even the rock bands had to play disco, she recalled.  Absurd.

But no more absurd than this moment… a moment she had prepared for, rehearsed for months, first in her imagination and then in reality.  She observed her reflected self in the heavily chromed interior and wondered what her friends who listened to “Radio Ga Ga” with her back then would think about her now.  She scanned herself from toe to top: the profound heels, the shimmering glitter evening dress, the make-up, the hair color.  It was all so unreal to her.

Speaking of which, the numbers counting up on the small LED screen in front of her reminded her of what was at stake.  She reached into the white leather purse and tapped the envelope.  She reached inside and felt the bills, cool and crisp.  Unused, fresh, ready.  They were what she was not.

Suddenly the car jerked, as if momentarily it lost its track.  “What?”… she asked aloud.  Again, to no one.

The elevator continued on, smoothly.

Was this coincidence?  Or did they know?  Had she been discovered?  With the practical sensibility that should have prevented this moment in the first place, she considered carefully.  What’s the difference?… she thought.  I will go through with this.  I’m in an elevator going upward.  There’s no stopping this now.

Ding.  The car halted and the door began to open…

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