“Are you going to let me in?” said Boris, when finally the elevator doors closed and we were alone. “Or shall we stand here tenderly and gaze?” … he looked both faintly contemptuous and very pleased with himself.
“I—" my heart was pounding, I felt sick again— “for a minute, sure.”
“A minute?” Disdainful look up and down. “You have some place to go?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.”

— Donna Tartt, The Goldfinch