"I've never had an elevator break down on me," I said to the brown-eyed, auburn-haired stranger, I was riding it with on 450 Sutter Street, San Francisco.
"Shh, shh," she admonished, laying a finger on her lips. "Don't say it out loud. This one's already broken down twice."
"What did you do, then?" I asked with morbid curiosity, a die-hard suburbanite visiting San Francisco for the day and looking for some tame adventure. Being rescued from a stuck elevator would qualify.
She shrugged and exited the elevator with rapid strides. I continued on to my floor and was a little disappointed when I arrived without any upheaval. The lingering disappointment remained with me after I'd been examined by my doctor and found 'healthy as a horse.' Time to go home to placid Pleasanton.