We’re riding the elevator down to the little art museum. I have whacked out my knee (a technical medical term) on the morning run, and taking the stairs down is out of the question.
We have been here many times, but never in the elevator. It’s fancy, like an expensive hotel or a prison where they’d send Martha Stewart. Mo looks up at the ceiling, and there we are.
Why would you put a mirror on the ceiling? We react in the only possible way, which of course is taking a photo.
As we are posing, the elevator door opens. Three feet away, sitting at the desk, is a friend Mo hasn’t seen in forever. She says hi. Mo says hi. Then she shrugs and says, “Sorry, we’re taking photos.” She hits the close button. The friend watches as the door closes. Eventually, the alarm sounds. Chaos ensues. But we get the photo.
This is why I love her so.
I hope we get sent to a prison that has mirrors on the elevator ceilings.