Standing in the elevator with a co-worker. A young woman walks in, cell phone to her ear, makeup running, sobbing hysterically. She is on the phone with who appears to be her new ex-boyfriend.
Her: WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME?!!?! Her: … Her: I HATE YOU. I LOVE YOU SO MUCH I HATE YOU. CANT YOU SEE THAT, MORON?! Her: … Her: I ONLY WENT OVER TO HIS HOUSE ONCE. NOTHING HAPPENED. Her: … Her (quietly): He did? Her: … Her: I DONT CARE IF YOU KNOW. I STILL LOVE YOU. DONT DO THIS! I HATE YOU! I LOVE YOU!
She leaves. Co-worker turns to me. “Smart man,” he says.
Emergency at Epcot. I ran into the elevator with a kid in each arm, both of whom wore pants that bore the wrath of cheaply made diapers worn well past the manufacturer’s suggested amount of human excrement. The kids screamed like megaphones.
I pressed the button and turned to see a pair of teenage love birds, their arms locked together, shocked expressions on their faces.
“Remember this,” I said as the doors opened and I ran away.