Prompt: The long-lost roommate.
There had been a lot of grappling in the elevator. This she remembered. Could still picture it if she closed her eyes. The darkly patterned emerald carpet like a putting green or the felted surface of a pool table. The reflective black paneling, good as any mirror. The optical illusion, when you stepped inside: whole armies of yourself, standing at attention, in rows and rows. Forever.
When he’d reached for her it hadn’t seemed like a choice. Their movements were automatic, full of the inertia of that sea of tangled limbs and pressing torsos. Who were they to resist infinity? When the door swung open to an instant of bright light on the tenth floor one of them–she could no longer remember who–had pressed the “closed” button. The other–it had been a joint effort, of this she was sure–had sent them all the way up, to the penthouse floor, where a tiny unlocked maintenance door led to the roof, to the hot dark summer air and a sky swirling with wine and stars.