She leapt onto the granite doorstep of her office building, her wool coat swinging by her knees. The glass entranceway was clouded with frosted condensation. From the outside the old stone building was grand, stoic and still. Inside, it was a swirl of golden warmth and movement. Skylar opened the door with a whoosh of air; cold colliding with warm. Stepping inside she blinked several times. Her eyelashes thawed. She removed her scarf and hat, shaking her dark hair loose to rest softly on her shoulders. She looked around and instantly felt the pulse of the building. The lobby was alive and bustling.
Being in an art deco-style, early twentieth-century building in Manhattan gave one a feeling of existing in another time. She secretly loved it here. She was mystified by the sweeping high ceilings, balustrade stairwells and antique sconces. To Skylar, the architecture had an ethereal affect. Aside from the busy professionals who inhabited it during the week, it was a rather romantic setting. Sadly, it was wasted on people who were too distracted to enjoy it.