The lights in the elevator were the color of hyperlinks, unvisited and saturated. She flicked through a sprawl of news articles and portraits in the feed, fluorescent pet pictures and inventoried lists for self-improvement. Intermittent blips of the elevator chime brought her closer to the top level – a floor indicated not by numbers but by shapes. LaTurbo was fond of Club Rothko, the socially desolate hall offered a very different sort of experience to its visitors.
She could already feel the barreled bass vibrations as the elevator cab reached its destination. LaTurbo clicked the lock button on the side of her cell phone as the thick metal doors revealed that familiar glowing corridor. Would anyone else be there?