by Robert Thistle

Created on: July 15, 2008

One With Otis

The stillness of night fogged her senses into an unwarranted shelter of peace. Only a few block away cars aggravated the air with engines begging to race. Yet here she was alone. As if on an island, in a concrete sea. A nervous calm surrounded her. Stalking the perimeter of a chain-linked fence, she found a gate securely padlocked. A baseball sized rock was sufficient argument for a rusted lock and it tumbled into the dirt followed by a cacophony of chains. It was private property, but Heather had little concern for privacy. The first elevator Otis had built was here on the demolition site. Heather wanted to be the last to ride it. In the morning, it would be dismantled by a salvage crew for parts. Crossing shadows, forced by a fading moon, she crouched her way to the main building. Doors echoed as she opened them, and entered into a room prisoned by the dust of yesterday. Central to her search, it stood in all it's eloquent grandeur. Otis's first elevator. Squinting in the dim light offered by the moon, her mind watched shadows slip around the room. Nothing to worry about, she decided. Besides, the opportunity to be lifted heavenward in Otis's first elevator outweighed any sensible action to leave. The scissored cage door groaned as she drew it back and entered the grand box. A symbol of a disillusioned history. Quietly she inhaled the memories of a thousand efforts to move people. Then closing her eyes, she envisioned a peopled past and felt a wanton sensuousness within the confines of a metal frame. Time faded in and out of her consciousness. Then it came. A hand soft and gentle rested upon her velvet shoulder. Fear did not register fast enough as the tender hand slowly slid down the front of her blouse. Loosening three buttons, it reached inside and softly caressed her left breast. A luxury unknown to her for years swallowed up any concern she might have voiced had she been able to look over her shoulder. Heather was still alone in the elevator. Alarm would have been of little use. She was deliciously secure in the moment. Dare she entice whoever it was behind her to further action, she wondered? She felt no human form against her back. No scent of cologne to light her senses. No laboured breathing other than her own. Yet the hand was real. Very real. It was not imagined. She felt it gently against the blithe obtrusion of her breast. In a moment of provocative wanton, she lifted her dress above her waist and breathlessly waited. A whirr of

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