I was in the elevator at my hotel in Vegas. It was during those awkward few moments when it’s just you and one other person, in this case a man, on the elevator and you are trying to pretend to casual nonchalance. I glanced to my left where a poster hung touting a show. I thought I could pretend interest in it until we hit the lobby floor. Then I realized I was staring at the dancer’s nipples, carefully encircled with glittering diamond-like jewels and held perkily up by the contraption holding the jewels and aspiring to be some sort of body covering.
I suddenly found myself on what felt like the longest elevator ride in history. All I wanted to do was throw a coat over the poster and apologize to someone for something. But I couldn’t figure out who or what before the elevator doors opened and I bolted into the welcoming noise of the casino.