As soon as she steps into the elevator, Liz goes to town unwrapping the poptart as fast as she can. A five minute lunch break would be ideal, but what with Jenna refusing to leave her dressing room and Tracy’s new feud with Kanye West, it seems unlikely. Instead, she’s got this thirty-second elevator ride to devour a sugary breakfast snack completely devoid of nutritional value, hopefully delaying her inevitable collapse for another couple of hours.
The elevator doors are like six inches away from closing when a very unwelcome hand intercedes.
Aaand it’s Jack. Of course.
“Lemon,” he says, nodding at her as he steps inside.
“Donaghy,” she mutters darkly, although it sounds more like “Dhghgfhh” through her mouthful of poptart.
He stares at her.
“What?” she grunts.
“What is that?”
“Lunch,” Liz says, and swallows.
Jack eyes her quizzically, but doesn’t say anything.
Oh, man. No. Not that look. Not today.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Liz accuses angrily. “‘Lemon, this is unacceptable. Clearly you have no respect for yourself not only as a woman but as a human being! How will you ever self-actualize now, with your wedding dress napkin and your sexually confused shoes?’ Well, ya know what? I’m a professional, pal. Yeah, that’s right! I can afford to make sacrifices for my work every once in awhile, okay? If I have to have a poptart for lunch so we can put together a killer show, then I’m fine with that! And besides, maybe you wouldn’t expect it, but the brown sugar cinnamon flavor kicks ass.” She resists the urge to finish off with ‘so there,’ decides that resisting urges is overrated, and adds, “So there.”
“I was only going to ask,” Jack answers, in that really annoying perfectly unperturbed way he has, “if I could have a piece.”
“Oh,” she says, surprised. “Um. Sure.”
She breaks off the bottom of the poptart and hands it to him.
“Thank you,” he says. Maybe even pleasantly.
“No problem,” she replies, and watches as he breaks the poptart fragment into neat fourths. He pops one of them into his mouth.
“You know,” she begins hesitantly, “There’s two in the package, if you want—”
“No, no,” Jack assures her, and eats another tiny piece of poptart. “This will be sufficient.”
“Um,” she says, “’kay.”
He doesn’t even grimace in disgust when she shoves the rest of the poptart into her mouth all at once. As far as elevator rides with Jack go, it’s pretty okay.