The mechanical yawn of the elevator was not enough to fill the silence between them. He fumbled with his keys; dropped them. She glanced up from her novel and shifted slightly against the mirror.
He swallowed audibly as she turned a page, her eyes never leaving his.
“Not bad, thanks,” he stammered. “You?”
She nodded and returned to the book. Her perfume was suffocating; somewhere between juniper and jasmine. He remembered the stink all too well.
“So what are you doing these days?” she asked, her eyes still scanning the page. “It’s been a while.”
Here it was. Months of anticipation. Late-night letters, bad poetry and missed meals. Scheming, plotting, dreaming: everything leading up to now.
“That it has,” he said quietly. He felt warmth in his palm and realized that the keys had drawn blood.
She glanced downwards, smiling, and tucked her hair behind her ear.
He plunged the knife into her chest, blood and tears blurring his face.
The elevator chimed merrily as it slowed.