The lift has stopped with a jolt; all sound has stopped. He grips his briefcase tighter. I watch his face closely, I am not sure why, as I wish he were not here. The old claustrophobia pushes against my rib cage, that fear of being locked-in is rising. I watch his shoes, my dad had said long ago you can tell a lot by a man's shoes. He rubs one shoe against the back of his other trousered leg. His darting blue eyes watches over my head; the number does not move. Pulling out his phone, he begins to stab and poke at the screen. Fear has made me cross, edgy, I smell an acrid scent that has caught the back of my throat like acid, I feel sickly, I am sure I look green, the number stays the same overhead. I begin to move my jaw to screech, then the door slides open, I am out and running, I look back and the man with the briefcase continues to stand there, wiping his other shoe.

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