"You know, where I come from, elevators are sort of this aphrodisiac."

Dr. Addison Forbes Montgomery, Private Practice.

Monday

Every morning, my mother calls me on my way to work. She wants to make sure that I am alive since I am a single woman living in Tokyo. She asks about my plans for the day, my hopes and dreams, etc. And she always leaves the conversation off by saying I really should get married. I frown every time. I know this conversation word for word. It is like the memorable words of Jane Austen and the lips of George Clooney. Now that is always effortless memorization. If only I had a George Clooney. It is never enough for our mothers. I wished it were enough. I went to college, graduated with honors, and even had a steady boyfriend for awhile. But time always passes on and things are constantly changing. I am still working for the same company, although I have moved to different floors. And actually supervise my own division. I mean who else has a comfortable salary, nice little apartment, and a beautiful kitty to boot. I don't see the man problem. I don't have to clean up after one or be completely selfless with my schedule. I can just be...I hate reality. If I had a reality with a comfortable salary, nice apartment, kitty cat, and a George Clooney, that would be wonderful. But I hate reality and reality hates me. Apparently I ask for too much. So this morning like every morning for the last 10 years, my mother calls me. And she calls me while I am on the elevator. And I hate talking on the elevator. Every one can hear your conversation. Apparently I have too much of a life. My life is an enigma to those on the 40th. I do my job, pay my taxes, and go home. I don't bring my home to work and my work to home. No I am much more sophisticated then that; I come to work on the weekends and stay late hours so no one can see me. So when my mothers yapping on the phone about how much I need a husband and a more meaningful life that would involve giving her grandkids, my fellow employees all of the sudden have nothing to talk about. By the time my mother finishes off her usual rambles, the elevator opens on the 12th revealing in a certain dark haired man with blue eyes. I don't know his name. I can only smile and nod my head pleasantly. I have every day for the last 10 years. This is my George Clooney. But I won't dare tell or let on. He is always quiet but well mannered. He has manners. He says please and thank you. He is so gorgeous that I am constantly making goggling eyes at him without him noticing. Sometimes I see a twinkle in his eyes when he glances my way. Or maybe it is the glare from the lighting in the elevator. Oh well I can have an imagination. And with his physique I have a field day. My day has been made. I think that is why my mother's phone calls never bother me. I know that in the morning, I will see my George Clooney. It is my caffeine. And it is my downer. Today I looked at him. Tomorrow I might even find out his name.