Elevator Watching

The elevator door opens and there stands a woman. Very tall. Very old. The deep lines etched in her face a tell-tale sign of her years spent hoarding her money. In her arms is perhaps the fattest white cat that I have ever seen. If it weren't for the loud purring I would have mistaken it for something else entirely. Each purr spoke of its life. L-a-z-y. S-p-o-i-l-e-d. R-i-c-h. The woman is absent-mindedly stroking it, petting it as if it were stuffed with hundred dollar bills, diamonds and rubies glistening on each of her wiry, knobby fingers. Her face is set in a slight smirk as the artificial lighting bounces off of her purplish-tinted, perfectly manicured hair. The flint in her eyes send fiery sprays, almost singeing the poor, dead animal draped around her fragile frame, the fur holding her body together in tiny, cold pieces. My eyes meet hers and they echo into her emptiness. Loneliness. Sadness. Regret. Just a flash, and then it is gone. She clutches her prized cat to her chest, resigned to her fate. I watch the door close and the elevator numbers climb to the very, very top.