You see,
            I am one of a kind.  Or at least, I think I am. It is not that I am alone. During the day, hands touch me more times than I could count, but the owners of said hands never take the time to notice my quivering response, my slow halt of ecstasy before the bell rings: 2nd floor. 3rd floor. 10th floor. And down again. Their pudgy, skinny, silly little hands touch me and push me and their warm, breathing bodies rub ever against my own, but it is simply some sort of business transaction—I am taking them from here to there—I am never here, or there. I am only in between.
            And so I began calling them.                 
            At first, it was a silent plea.  A call in the night, some number I had memorized during my day shift. And then it seeped into the day.  Before I knew it, I was caught up in a black hole of miscommunication, calling those who had forgotten me, calling those who would never remember me.
            “10th floor, please. Would you?”
            “Oh why, thank you. So kind.”
            Don’t you see me pulsing in unspeakable delight? Don’t you feel me hesitate in-between each floor, hoping for one of you to pause—and I—gasp—