Opposite of Cliché

       In my opinion, an elevator coming to a halt is one of the biggest clichés. Especially when it goes like this: two strangers in an elevator, and it abruptly stops. Lights flicker and then fizzle out, and strangers continue to sit in silence until one of them breaks it because the other is clearly having a panic attack of some sort (usually due to claustrophobia). Then, during the time they are locked in an elevator waiting for help, they get to know each other and, of course, they fall in love.

            Thankfully, my current situation is a little different. I am stuck in an elevator, yes, but I am not with a stranger. I am with my husband, who I have only married hours ago, and we are both still dressed in what we were just wearing at the altar. Saying I want to get out of this dress is an understatement. 

            Now, we are sitting across from the elevator doors, side by side, my wedding dress taking up the majority of the small space. 

            “Because the power is out, do you think the cameras in here are running?” Terrence says from beside me. Up until now, the only conversations him and I have had were about whether who would try calling the emergency phone (me) and who would try banging for a solid five minutes to see if we were stuck on a floor and people would be able to pry open the door to let us out (him). The consensus taken by these actions are: no one answered the phone, meaning that the spare generator has not kicked in yet (also something that is cliché, I mean, have you ever seen a film where they call the emergency phone, and someone actually answers?). Secondly, we must be stuck between floors, because no one seemed to hear Terrence’s pounding. 

            “I don’t know,” I say to my new husband. “why?”

            “Well, I know we were just planning on going upstairs to change before we go for drinks, but, well, I was hoping we could take a little extra time, getting dressed.”

            “Terrence!” I squeal, somehow embarrassed although I know we are the only ones able to hear our conversation, and if the camera was working, they surely don’t have any microphones. 

            “Sorry.” He mutters, and that halts our conversation. Is this how all newly-weds are, right after the big day? I’m exhausted, I don’t know how he could think of having sex right now, and I can’t believe we are stuck in an elevator and that’s what he wants to do to pass the time.

            Sit in silence. Try not to think about the people probably waiting for us at the pub (Terrence’s idea to just have a small get-together at a pub instead of a fancy reception. I couldn’t really protest because I strictly told him I was planning our wedding myself and there was no room for him to try and change things; this was his only request). Unless, of course, the pub had also lost power and we were all stuck in a similar situation right now. 

            “Where’s your phone?” Terrence asks after over ten minutes of silence. 

            “My mobile?” I question, and I can almost see him roll his eyes, except I’m not looking at him and it’s pretty black in here. 

            “Yes, your mobile. Where is it?”

            I think about it for a moment. I know it’s not on me–where did I leave it? “I gave it to Sarah, before we left the dressing room. It’s still with her, probably.” I hear his fabric move and know that he has nodded. “Why?”

            “Just wondering. Mine is dead.”

            “Wouldn’t the cell towers be shut down anyway?” I ask, then regret it because I sound stupid.

            “How would I know?” Terrence says, making me feel stupider. I don’t say anything more.

            Back to silence. I stare at the shoes poking out from under my dress. Beautiful, ridiculously expensive shoes. More silence.

            “Do you have a watch?” I ask.

            “Yeah,” Terrence says, then squints down at his wrist. “It’s about half past eight.”

            Quiet again. If the only thing without power is this overpriced resort, they will definitely be at the pub wondering where we are. Or maybe they have assumptions about what is holding us up–it’s clear Terrence had planned to make us late, anyway. 

            “Are you okay?” Terrence asks, and I finally turn to look at him for the first time since we got stuck in here. This is definitely not like the movies. Instead of leaving this elevator engulfed in the feeling of love, I wonder if I’ll feel any love at all.

            “Yeah, why?” I ask, more so to be polite.

            “You’re pretty quiet.”

            I turn away from him again. I have no explanation and don’t feel like using my breath to try and make one up.

            “Is this because I hinted at having sex in here? Because if that’s why, just pretend it was a joke. I mean, who would want to lose their virginity in an elevator in the middle of a power-outage, right?” He stifles a laugh, and it sounds forced.

            “Right.” I say, but it doesn’t sound as bright as I had intended. Maybe because I’m not bright at all right now. That’s not normal right? To feel miserable after your dream wedding?

            But then again, who marries the first man who proposes to them, after only two months of dating? Especially when the husband in question is barely a legal adult, and I’ve been an adult for twenty-five years. Is that really a dream-come-true scenario?

            This isn’t love. This was just the only chance I thought I had at love.

            “Terrence,” he looks at me again, or did he ever stop? “Why did you pick me?”

            He hesitates. “I’ve told you this about a million times. I love you, you’re beautiful, you’re smart and funny and all the things that make a good person.”

            “No, that’s not what I mean.” I assume the silence is an invitation to explain my point further. “I mean, why did you pick me? A forty-three-year-old woman who is still a virgin, lives with four cats, and is close-ish to retirement while you haven’t even finished college?”

            “Uh, love doesn’t have an age?” I know he doesn’t intend it to be a question, but it comes out sounding like one. 

            We sit in silence for a minute, and I look at the ring on my finger. It’s nothing special, and it never was. “This isn’t love, Terrence.”

            Then, the lights flicker on, and the elevator jolts to begin moving, following its original instruction to go to floor 15, where the honeymoon suite is and will remain empty tonight.