who are these people?

you, in your neck-to-ankle black suit with your brown briefcase that carries all your business cards you never hand out to all the people you never meet at the social parties you never go to pats your thigh as you slink from the taxi and into the real world. your penny loafers clap against the cement as you make your way to the revolving doors, and the glass twirls and twirls around like those displays at department stores that you never go to because you're too busy working and living and not attending parties to meet people and hand out business cards. you step into a booth, and let the other co-workers and pedestrians aid you through. the cool air rushes over your patterned tie and down your sleeves and rests at your cuff-links that you got on sale at nordstrom, but no one would ever notice that unless you told them. the noise and the rush and the people drown you as you swim your way to the elevator and wait.

and wait.

and wait.

and eventually the numbers recede into yours and the double-doors open, showcasing a bouquet of anxiety. you cram yourself into the box with the numbers and the lights and the strings that pull it closer to god and hold your breath because you hate the feeling the elevator gives you when it passes through floors. *ding* the doors open, and the faces shove through, and you're back into the box with the numbers and the lights and the strings that pull it closer to god and you hold your breath again because you hate the feeling the elevator gives you when it passes through floors, and it
d
r
o
p
s
away from god, and away from the faces. and you release your breath, and the lights flicker, and the slack in the string catches and it sends your brown briefcase that never matched in the first place but you hoped no one would really pay attention or care tumbling down to the marble stone that your penny-loafers rest upon. all your business cards that you never hand out to all the people you never meet at the social parties you never go to run across the floor. your grip on the handrail of the box tightens and the faces dim in the light that was left a few floors up. the double-doors open to a cement wall and the lights die. who are these people?