The Man I Met in the Elevator

A man I keep running into in the elevator. Standing well over 190cm, with a chest, arms, and legs packed with muscle. A man of mixed Italian descent with a sculpted face that is almost excessively handsome. For some reason, he keeps pressing his body closer and closer to mine in the elevator. Is it normal for my heart to flutter for another man? I can no longer tell if this pounding is due to jealousy over not being born like him, or because of his raw, masculine scent. A man who always wears luxurious suits, getting on and off the elevator from the top-floor penthouse. And then, a deep, low voice echoing in my ear. “Che bella cosa.” Go away. Don't come near me. Stop rubbing against...