This is an old writing warm-up I did, probably from a year or so ago.

~~~~~~~

That morning, I felt good. Really good. It was sort of weird, I guess. I just woke up, saw the sunlight tinkling in from the hotel room window, realized what my plans for the day was and thought to myself, "This is going to be a really good day".

    And it was, at first. For example, I discovered an unexpected surprise in my suitcase: a new elegant white blouse, a dressy knee-length navy blue pencil skirt, and the cutest gray blazer with a black belt and an extremely sparkly (and big) black-and-white flower pin (why, thank you, Harrison, don't mind if I do!). I experimented with the look for a short while before I settled with tucking the blouse in under the skirt and placing the belt higher up than my waist. I paired the look off with my faithful pair of black Christian Louboutin Bianca platform pumps, the bobbed blonde wig, the silver-blue color contacts, and a beauty mark on my right cheekbone.

    And the hotel-provided breakfast I received from room service was sublime! After getting seconds of their waffles and sending my compliments to the chefs, I grabbed my brand-new black quilted Chanel shoulder purse, doubling-checking to make sure the bomb was still in there (it was).

    After spending a short moment mourning not what was about to be a tragic loss of dozens of people, but an even more tragic loss of such a sophisticated and expensive purse, I left the hotel and caught a cab to the seventy-six story skyscraper of a home office. As we approached the looming tower, I reapplied my favorite new lipstick (Rouge Dior No. 999 by Dior), which sort of helped soothe my fears over losing the Chanel purse. It would be for the greater good, of course, and its sacrifice would not go in vain.

    So I tipped my driver with a hefty sum and entered the (not-so) great Pierpont Headquarters, metal-detector-proof bomb and fake IDs and all. Thirteen minutes later, I had passed through their thorough security checks as a world-renowned reporter who had come for an exclusive with the almost-untouchable, genius, young (and not too hard-on-the-eyes) founder of Pierpont Corporations, Edward Pierpont.

    In a quiet, classy corridor, I pressed the elevator button and waited a minute until the complicatedly designed doors slid open. I stepped into the elevator and pushed the button for the seventy-second floor, where the complex office of Edward Pierpont took up the entire story, and smiled to myself as the door closed.

    Yep, this was a good day. The hardest part of the assignment was already behind me, and soon after a quick three minute 'interview'/flirting session with Edward Pierpont, I would 'accidently' leave my purse (tear) in his office where it couldn't be easily found. After exiting the building, I would go to a restaurant on the other side of the city, quickly change into a new disguise, and catch my plane to the other side of the country. Easy.

    I snaked my hand into the fabulous purse (RIP, you will be missed, you poor, dear thing) and pressed the button on the bomb. The faint glow of the red 19:59 blinked up at me before I re-buttoned my purse close.

    My elevator had gone up three floors before it stopped and opened again. A young man, even younger-looking than me (and I looked even younger than I actually was at the moment) hurriedly rushed on, carrying a large stack of papers.

    I gave the kid a quick glance-over. Messy strawberry blond bed-head, classic nerd glasses, untucked white dress shirt, baggy blue jeans with faded stains, black Converse knock-offs, and a blindingly bright and overly tacky tie. Eeugh. He could definitely do waaay better, especially considering where he worked.

    He struggled with holding his high stack of paperwork and attempting to press/actually see the elevator buttons from over his papers. After a short moment, I asked, "What floor?"

    The kid peeked over at me, relief and gratitude in his eyes behind the thick glasses. "Seventy-two, please. Thanks."

    "Don't thank me, I'm going there myself." I flashed the boy my most charming smile as the elevator doors closed before turning my attention back to the floor number display.

    As we rode up slowly, I felt the boy continuing to glance over in my direction. He was probably either examining me to see if he remembered me from somewhere, or he was checking me out. Most likely that last one.

    After a few awkward seconds, the kid cleared his throat apprehensively. "I'm, um, I'm Ricky Korman, the new intern here." He unsteadily introduced himself, shooting me a nervous smile.

    "I'm Carmela Queens," I lied smoothly. "A reporter from the Apprise International."

    "I didn't realize Apprise had gone international."

    "We're a new extension, just got up a running a few months ago."

    "Oh, well that's nice. How have things been going?"

    "Smooth, I suppose. Not as much hype as we would like, but if things continue the way they are, we should be running for about ten plus years."

    "Oh, well I hope things go even better than you plan."

    "Thank you! I hope so too."

    I watched the floor number change as we continued our little chit-chat. Eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen; for such a high-tech company, this elevator sure does run slow. Ricky had just made an off-hand comment about how much he disliked taking this elevator because of its unusual leisurely speed when, to my horror, we were violently jerked to a stop. His papers fluttered to the ground as I desperately attempted to catch my balance against the wall as my shoes threatened to give out.

    "What-what was that?" I shakily asked, already dreading the answer.

    Giving up on regathering his papers for the moment, Ricky leaned over to the buttons. No amount of pushing on the buttons would get the elevator to move again. Stuck. He smiled shyly. "Guess we'll be stuck in here for a while."

I clutched my bag tightly, starting to sweat. I hoped he wouldn't hear the countdown ticking inside. "What? No, I can't be stuck!" I exclaimed with an undignified squeal. Quickly, I cleared my throat. "I-I have another very important meeting within the hour!"

"Sorry, Carmela," Ricky apologized with a soft, remorseful smile. "But we might be here for a while."

My breath caught and my heart stopped. I tightly closed my eyes and clutched the handle of that dreaded, stupid purse. No no no no no this cannot be happening. The taunting glow of the countdown timer grinned up at me. 14:08.

"Uh, Carmela?"

I reopened my eyes and saw Ricky staring back at me with a perplexed expression across his face. "Are you okay? You look sort of pale." He asked, seemingly unsure if it was polite to ask or not.

"I'll be better when I get out of this horrid elevator." I mumbled, a hint of my native brogue rolling slyly through the rough vowels.  "Are there cameras in here?"

"What? Um, I don't think." Ricky's eyebrows furrowed. "Why?"

With a dramatic sigh, I dropped my bag, letting the bomb spill out, its 13:48 timer glaring upwards. Ricky gasped, his shocked gaze pick-ponging from the bomb to me and back again.

I crossed my arms, hip jutting out. "As you can clearly see, the two of us are in a predicament," I declared, letting my accent out boldly. "So I would suggest complete secrecy about what's about to happen in this elevator, or so help me, I will let this bomb go off and let it kill both of us."