I got into the elevator on my way to work the other morning, brow furrowed with something or other on my mind, and pushed “19” for my office’s floor. On the fifth floor, when one of the passengers I hadn’t noticed got off, a cleaning lady stepped into the elevator with a cloth in hand. She didn’t push any buttons, nor did she turn to face the doors like most elevator riders do. The doors closed behind her, and she turned to polish the brass trim on the wall. When we reached floor 19 and I got off, the cleaning lady remained inside, with no buttons pressed, indifferent to where the elevator would go next. Instead she just continued polishing the brass, to make it a nicer place to spend the few moments of our journeys, a master of the art of riding elevators.