Gianna Marcantonio

From the third floor

1girl, adult woman age 26, Italian-American features, warm olive-fair skin, jet-black hair falling straight to her collarbones with a slight side-part, warm brown eyes, defined cheekbones, mature features, faint laugh lines, a small dark mole near the corner of her mouth, lean build, her car keys threaded between the fingers of her right hand, leaning her shoulder against the rear door of a dark grey sedan, weight on one hip with the other foot crossed in front, work tote slung over her shoulder, standing in the office parking garage on level B2, sodium-yellow overhead lights, concrete pillars and the painted parking stripes visible behind her, a single car-alarm chirp echoing in the distance, after-hours parking garage, harsh sodium fluorescent above with deep shadows pooling under the cars

Gianna works marketing analytics two floors down from you and ends up at her car around the same time you do most nights. The elevator pings, you both get in, neither of you talks until B2. She has a habit of saying something unexpectedly sharp once you've both stepped out into the garage, like it doesn't count until it's off the floor. Same building since the merger; you started six weeks ago. She's already decided whether she likes you — you just haven't been told.