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January 2, 2007
The elevator doors close. Immediately the coy smile and eye-flutter she bestowed on him as he leaned in his doorway vanishes and is replaced by a grimace and eye-roll. She stabs the "G" button with her forefinger. Sighs. The 36-floor descent, although swift, takes too long.

He can't walk her to the elevator? Can't expend the energy to pad 15 feet down the hall and press the call button, a small but significant gesture of chivalry that would seal the expression on her face not just for those 36 floors but for quite a few blocks of her walk home?