Unlucky 13

kyaralao

I suppose I have a sunny disposition: I'm "real good" at small talk and usually put people at ease. But I resent it. I hate being the talker at the table--the ever dependable ice breaker at some distant cousin's wedding. But most of all, I hate being stuck in the elevator with a stranger. Just the two of us counting the "one-one thousand" long seconds between every floor. It happened to me today. And I swore that this time, I wouldn't comment on the weather or even nod hello. I "one-one thousanded" all the way to the thirteenth floor (in Brazil the 13th floor still exists). It was uncomfortable. Probably more for me than my co-rider. Neither of us had literature in hand nor cell phones to fidget. Ding. The doors open.
"Tchau. Bom Dia." The words rolled off my tongue.
I just couldn't do it.