Prompt: Choose two characters from a pool your classmates made up and write about them trapped in an elevator.

"So, you... uh... you do this often?"
The guy rocked back and forth on his heels, swinging his arms and clapping his hands together intermitently.
"Do I do <i>what</i> often? Get stuck in elevators?"
"Um... yeah." He'd felt like something needed to be said, but realized as soon as he said something this was clearly not the case.
"No. Not really," she said, resentfully suspending her policy of civil inattention long enough to glance in his direction. "My doctor thinks I should try to cut back."
She was about his age and height. Eyes like Goldschlager and Midori; skin warm and dark like the cinnamon bread at Emilo's, hair like the apollogetic mousse served at Torini's after an extravagant bill, a forty minute wait, and sub-par service. Tasteful portions. Good presentation. Classic beauty with a dash of exotic intrigue; a pinch of sultry indulgence. Good-looking kid at the end of a pretty bad day.
"That's probably sound advice."
She looked distinctly tired in a "determined not to look tired" sort of way. A Potemkin bulwark of make-up, manicures, perfume, and pressed clothing were betrayed by fatigue in her eyes and posture. If only she'd taken the stairs.
"This is my first time," he admitted with a stagey grin. "I guess I'm a little nervous."
The girl continued to play with her telephone, re-cataloging every feature in her mind, memorizing each number she could call from anywhere but the inside of a ferous-framed cage, stalled between the fifth and sixth floor of her apartment complex. Industriously, she tried to ignore the average-looking kid in laundry-day clothes standing less than a meter to her right with a bag of groceries and a yen for conversation that was defying conventional methods of disarmament. Steve? Who the hell was that?
"The guy on the intercom there said we should just stay put. Guess most injuries involving elevator malfunctions are caused by people forcing open the doors or tamperring with the ceiling hatch or whatever. Shocking themselves with the wires."
She smelled a little like the scented candles they burned near the register at the Silver Palace nearby. An excellent choice for moderately-priced authentic Thai cuisine that only lost a couple points for location and plastic furniture.
"My name's Karl, by the way. I live on the eighth floor."
The girl decided to give up.
"I'm Jaz," she capitulated, leaning back against the waist-high hand-rail. "I've had a pretty rough day."
"Jaz. Is that a nickname?"
"Yes."
"Too bad about your day."
"You're telling me."
"This is my day off. It's not exactly how I'd pictured spending it, but I guess it could be worse."
"Day off, huh? What do you do when you're on?"
"I'm a food critic." Jaz looked critically at the food near the top of the bag of groceries at his feet.
"Top Ramen, huh? How many stars would you give that?"
"Two and a half," he said, glancing at his watch. "One if I have to cook it in here. What do you do?"
"Photography."
"Really. What do you photograph?"
"Stuff."
"Uh huh. You use high-speed film for that, or does it pretty much stay in one place?"
"I work through ad agencies most of the time. Sub-contracts." She removed a pair of stylish specs and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Today I had to burn ten rolls of film on a bowl of corn pops."
"Food photography, huh? I hear you guys use mashed potatoes instead of ice cream and Elmer's glue or whatever instead of milk. Holds up better under the lights, right?"
"Yeah, that's true. Not always potatoes, but-- how'd you know that?"
"Just heard it somewhere. I <i>am</i> a food critic, after all."
"Yeah, lettuce, onions, photographers," Jaz pressed her thumb and index finger against her eyes till stars jumped out under the lids. "Everything withers under the lights. Kind of ironic that the ideal plate of chicken with rice contains niether chicken nor rice."
"Perfection by proxy, right? It's the story of our times. How's that headache coming along?"
"Oh, it's killing me. I just want to get home and crash."
"I got..." Karl paused and dug around in his grocery bag. "I got some apirin here if you want a couple. 'Put it in the water for the plants, actually. It's wierd but it makes them grow better for some reason."
"Is it Advil?"
He rolled the canister slowly between his fingers. "It... I don't know. It's not brand-name if that's what you mean. Generic non-aspirin. 'Plants don't complain." He fumbled with the lid. "Although I may not be able to get it open..."
"Here, let me."
Jasmine took the bottle from Karl, popped the top off with her thumb, and drained a couple chalky tablets onto her tounge. She tilted her head back and swallowed hard. "Ugh."
"So I see you've done this before," he remarked, collecting the bottle and cap and dropping them into the grocery sack. "You photographers must lead pretty wild lives."
"Just visual, you know -- thanks for the Advil -- Lots of shutters and light; recipe for migranes. But sight's kind of my thing. 'couldn't live without it. Sometimes I have nighmares about going blind. Wake up in the dark and I just keep freaking out."
"Yeah, I guess if I lost my sense of taste, I'd be screwed too. 'Have to go to plan B."
"Judging from your shopping list," Jaz smiled, referring back to the groceries with a nod, "I'd say you better get going."
"That's cute."
"What's plan B for you anyway?"
"Writing."
"Yeah? Like what?"
"Ah, you know, like-- stuff."
"Uh huh. Is there much of a market for that?"
"Alright, since you asked, I write romance novels." Karl looked sheepish and vaguely appologetic. "Kind of silly, but there you go. I'm trying to get my first one published now, but there's been some problems with--"
"Romance novels? Like soap operas?"
"Naw, like romantic comedies."
"Like 'Sleepless in Seattle'?"
"Oh no. Naw. Not really. More like 'Siam Sunset', if you've seen that film. Kind of obscure, but..."
"'Siam Sunset'?! I love that movie!" Jasmine's eyes shone brighter as the asprin and distraction quelled the pain. "Oh my god! I've never met anyone else who's seen that!"
"Oh sure. I own it. Commercial too, it's not even a copy. I'm a pretty big movie fan."
"I wanted to go to Australia so bad after renting that. It looks so beautiful. The blue sky and the crimson earth. I love travelling, but I haven't been to Australia yet. I totally want to go."
"I went to Cambodia once for about a week. That's pretty much it. Very green. Spicy food." He paused for a second, "Oh yeah, Arizona, too."
"I paint," she volunteered.
"Oh yeah? Water color or--"
"Acrylic mainly. The colors are more vibrant that way. I've painted stuff in like six different countries. I mean, I've been to six different countries and painted, not, you know, like painted landmarks or whatever."
"Wow. That's really fantastic. Six. Jesus. That's a lot."
They were both quiet for a while. Karl smoothed a tear in the faded carpet with the toe of his shoe while Jaz fussed superficially with her nails.
"Do--/I--" Jaz's eyes darted instinctively to the corner and Karl rubbed the back of his neck. There was a beat and then...
"I just--/All--" They both laughed out the tension.
"You'd better go first," Karl offerred with a stupid grin. "I can wait."
"Well," Jaz recomposed herself, "This might sound pretty stupid, but-- uh, well, would you like to have a drink or something at my place? I mean, or whatever. It's right near the elevator and everything. I could show you my paintings. If you'd like."
"That sounds awesome," admitted Karl, blushing a little and shuffling his feet.
A groan high above the flickerring lights and a shudder precipitated the renewal of the elevator's ascent. Great wheels crept slowly back into motion.

Five and a half stories below in a small, sterile room awash with the sickly cathode glare of security monitors, two flushing kids exchanged shy glances as they followed each other out of the monochromatic aegis of camera fourteen. A big guy in cover-alls slapped a greasy bill down on the table, startling two cups of coffee that chattered petulantly.
"<i>Damn it</i>, Vince, I should <i>know</i> not to bet against you like this."
"I had a feeling about those two, I tell you."
"Well one of hese days you'll lose your streak."
Vince waved him off with a casual gesture and stuffed the bill into his wallet.
"They're made for each other."
Don stubbed out his cigarette, stood up and stretched his arms.
"We'll see about that. In the meantime, I gotta check those cables in shaft three. Kettleman's been giving me hell." His chair giggled accross the concrete floor as he straightenned, pushing it back. "Think you'll be okay in here without me?"
"I could use the peace and quiet, you gabby bastard. Give me time to catch up on my reading." He fished a well-worn volume from his bag.
"Romance novels; that's girl stuff, Vince. What the hell do you see in it anyway?"
Vince thumbed through a couple pages in search of his dog ear, patiently folding the cover back and smoothing the crease while Don's question hung in the stale air, unanswerred. 
"Don't you have some cables to inspect?"
"Yeah, I'm moving." Don grabbed a radio off the wall and headed for the door. He openned it a crack and paused, turning slightly.
"Hey, Vince."
"You still here?"
"Happy Valentine's day, buddy."
"Yeah whatever, Don. Same to you."