I usually take the stairs.

I usually ignore mankind's inventions and choose to walk up twenty-three flights of steps. The paint is peeling in the stairwell—the walls were once white, then green, and then either grey or purple. It's hard to tell. Currently, they're a nauseating mixture of beige and peach, but there are patches of roughness where the previous colors show through.

But today is different. Today Hal asked me to bring up an ungodly large crate from the lobby. I have no idea what's in it, but I know what it means—there's no chance I can take the stairs. I don't know why he doesn't just send someone down for the package like he normally would. Maybe it's because someone told him I've been taking the stairs. I wish people would just mind their own business. I guess that's what I get for choosing to work in an office with only twenty people—nosy coworkers on my case all the time.

But there's really nothing I can do, so I drag the heavy cardboard box over to the elevator and press the up button. As I stand there, chewing my gum and waiting for the damn thing to get here, I stare at the looming metal slabs in front of me. They're shiny, and they remind me somewhat of an episode of Star Trek I've seen once. As I'm thinking about how weird Patrick Stewart's ears are, the elevator opens and I'm finding myself with the next struggle of the day. Getting that box and my briefcase and myself into the elevator doesn't seem like an effortless task. I toss my bag onto the beige tiled floor and then go for the box. I use my feet to slide the crate onto the elevator. Partway through, the thing starts beeping like the hatch in LOST, as if to warn me that the giant metal doors are going to slam shut like teeth and crush me and the box. I don't think it has the nerve.

Ten or so beeps in, I manage to give the crate one last kick and it ends up inside. The amount of force I needed to get it inside makes me topple over the top of the crate and bang my head on the mirrored walls of the elevator. When I finally get to my feet, I look at the buttons and wonder which one to press. There's too many—1's and 2's and 3's, all the way up to 94. The building is only 93 stories tall. There's no number 13. And then, as if the numbers weren't enough, they've got a "call" button, "door open", "door close", and "alarm."

I press 23 and feel the weight of the elevator shift upwards. I lean against the wall and wonder how long the ride will be. I suppose I'll be at my desk faster than I would be if I took the stairs. I think of the stairs and I spit my gum back out into its wrapper. I think of what Hal's motive for tricking me into taking the elevator must be. But Hal doesn't know about the gum—there's no way he could. No one knows that every morning's the same for me—trying on dresses and suits by the dozen and trying to decide which one makes me look the least fat. No one knows that I chew gum so I won't have the urge to eat anything. I'll be popping away on a piece of Trident and thinking, "Okay, so now I'm not thinking about eating something, but the gum has to have calories in it, doesn't it?" And yes, Trident does have calories. Five of them. It doesn't seem like a lot, I guess, but I'll be chewing the gum and I can't enjoy it because I think I have to burn those five calories off somehow. The gum is why I take the stairs.

As I'm thinking about all this, I look up above the metal doors and notice for the first time a meter that tells you which floor you're on. It says 14, which I guess is really 13, if you think about it. I'm staring at the meter, watching the numbers change when all of a sudden it stops on 19. I think someone must've pushed the button, so I wait for the metal jaws to spring open again. But after a minute, they don't, and I start to panic.

My first instinct is to call Hal on my cell phone and tell him that the damn elevator won't move. I reach into my jacket pocket and flip my Razor open. Along with the picture of my dog, the words "No Service" blink at me. I mumble a curse out loud and slam the phone shut with a satisfying click. I look at the plethora of shiny buttons and locate "Alarm." Pressing it does nothing, and I don't know what to do. After taking another glance at the meter to see if it's changed, I sink to the floor in defeat. The cold, hard tiles instantly freeze my body. I look at the meter again and then at the buttons and finally at the crate.

I'm not sure how long it's been since I first started staring at that crate, but the longer I did, the more I started to hate it. I hated it for being the reason I was on this elevator, the reason I was stuck on the cold, hard floor. The more I thought about it, the more I wanted to open it and see what was inside. What could possibly be so important that Hal made me bring it up? Why couldn't it wait until someone with some upper body strength came in? I decided that since there was nothing better to do, I would open it.

I tore the top off and stared inside. At first I had no idea what I was seeing, but then I started to pull the contents out onto my lap. They were postcards—works of art on an index card, depicting my coworker's most intimate secrets. The first one showed a computer and the blurred shadow in front of it. It read, "It's no secret that you spend every Monday morning pouring over I smile, thinking that yes, I do have the nosiest coworkers ever.

As I read more, I realize that they're all for me. My coworkers spent countless hours making nearly 100 postcards just for me to read. Some are silly things like, "I hate chocolate chip ice cream, but I eat it anyway because my boyfriend makes it for me." But then I get to one that says "I know about the gum." And my heart stops beating.

I stare at the meter again, and the elevator is still stuck. I'm trapped in here, forced to confront my secret. My inescapable situation. I throw the card down on the ground because I'm afraid to look at it. I look instead at myself in the mirrored walls and I start to cry. I'm not sure why I'm crying, but I can't help it. I'm stuck in an elevator, I'm late for work, and someone knows my deepest secret.

I reach into the box, thinking how pathetic I must be for having such difficulty with a crate full of paper. I look at my reflection and I realize that maybe I'm not fat—and I know it's not just the suit I've chosen today. I feel a final postcard on the bottom of the box and I pull it out, eyes closed, afraid of what it says. "You'll get through this," it says, and I cry even more.

Just then, the elevator makes a creaking noise, like an animal waking up from a deep slumber. The meter starts changing again, and it makes it to twenty three. The doors open and I'm just sitting there on the cold tiles, post cards scattered around me and my mascara a mess.

As I wonder if anyone will walk by and see me like this, I make a promise to myself that I'll never take the stairs again.