In a lift, acknowledging the other passengers is inadvisable, making eye contact is not to be recommended and attempting to form some sort of conversation is downright ridiculous.

Very few people meet in a lift. It is not the place to introduce yourself, to start a friendship or a romance- no matter what Hollywood would have us think. It is the place in which you are vulnerable, exposed inside a tiny metal coffin. You would not make friends with someone you met in a lift any more than you would make friends with someone you met in a public lavatory.

This was very unfortunate for Mark, who would’ve liked to have spoken to the girl stood next to him. Her hair smelt of coconuts and she was crying silently. Mark had seen many women cry but never before had he seen one manage to do so without sniffing and gulping and gasping and generally making an unnecessary scene. Then again, to comfort a crying stranger in a lift was an unnecessary scene in itself…Best to leave her as she was.

The woman in the corner of the lift rolled her eyes to the heavens and turned away from coconut girl. A ludicrous display of emotion. The girl probably cried at sad movies, at dead animals in the street, at starving children on the news…That was the sort of behaviour that gave females everywhere a bad name. The woman in the corner smiled smugly, she prided herself on never crying at such things. She was strong, a modern woman, in fact, she hadn’t cried in years. Not even when others would have crumbled and wept. She was strong, a modern woman, and her pride was fading, steadily replaced by uneasiness as she looked once more at coconut girl.

Clare tugged at her clothes and hitched up her jeans, not even noticing coconut girl’s wonderful aroma and silent tears. Despite the fact that not one of the other passengers had even given her a second glance, Clare knew they resented her, she knew they hated her, knew they pitied her- the fat girl taking up so much space.

The only sound within the lift came from the young man wearing headphones. He, like Clare, had not noticed the strange, sorrowful state of coconut girl. As the indistinguishable base line thudded out into the strained silence he stared, shamelessly and with glassy eyes at his weeping companion’s breasts, trying not to think of the fact that he didn’t find her beautiful form even slightly attractive.  

The small child nestled against coconut girl, breathing in the sweet smell her mother exuded, dreaming of flying and lip gloss. She was safe from judgement in the lift, free to stare at the skinny girl who fiddled and fidgeted with her clothes, allowed to shrink away from the stern looking lady in the corner, permitted to glare at the boy who was looking at her mummy in that way. She was even allowed to smile and show her missing front teeth to the tall man near the door, who, until then, had not noticed coconut girl’s daughter.

“Definitely best I didn’t say anything,” Mark thought, “Probably a single mother...you don’t want that sort of baggage.”