limping to the lift (life in the west)

On entering the building from the south doors and we cross the foyer, the AI and facial recognition system logging our faces, identities, (9.23, nnnn enters building) and seeing the lift doors open across the long foyer, limp across the shiny floor, but is fated to miss the lift as the doors slide shut. Humiliated we wonder if it’s fate and think we will soon never take this lift to the fifth floor again. Normally we run for the lift, often catching it, not simply lucky but rather aware that the risk of not catching the lift is probabilistically smaller than catching it, but today we are limping, hobbling because of a damaged foot, limp, limp, limp, shuffle, desperate for the office and a chair to rest out leg after this painful commute. The sliding doors reopen and with a carefully indifferent expression we step into the lift and lean against a convenient piece of wall, looking at ourselves in the mirror opposite, wondering how we came to look so old, we miss our young bodies, attempting to conceal the momentary panic in our breathing from the others in the lift. (They are speaking about their work, or yesterday evenings successes, an assignation that will take place later or perhaps something as banal as a note they read on their phones traveling on the train). We are thinking how we damaged our foot, our tendons, regretting we came to the office. Then our foot resting on the chair we are drinking poor quality office espresso and reading the first report of the day. And yet here we are having won the race to the lift and hoping it will bring us success in our short day in the office…