And John was gone with the friction of his shoes on the carpet fading away. She paused in her mopping of the whiskey and coke on the floor (which was really just pushing the fizz back and forth into the cracks of the tile) to strain for the buzz of the elevator door. It did not come. She rocked from her heels to her toes, listening to the overwhelming air conditioner. Maybe he hadn’t left. She creaked to a stand and waited; the disintegrating paper towels abandoned. She felt that presence beyond the door—the same of being watched. He must still be here. She stepped to the door and leaned into the peephole. Nothing. No one. John was gone. She opened the door for confirmation—a conformation of more than his absence and forced the door closed. “Fuck him.”
And she turned and stepped on the broken glass.