It’s nine o’clock in the evening. I’m an hour late, but I expected that. Music is blaring from the speakers in the conference room, and my coworkers are definitely getting into the swing of things, no inhibitions to be seen.
Sally finds me by the punchbowl. She's already on her second glass, according to her, and swaying to the music. She is wearing a tight, sleeveless red dress that matches her lipstick and five-inch heels. How can she walk in those things? She looks ready for anything, or anyone. At least the decor isn’t too Christmas-y, though there is mistletoe hanging from all kinds of places—doorknobs, chairs, lamps, doorframes, ceiling fans, you name it. I would need to be on my guard constantly against opportunistic lips.
She drags me across the room, a glass of punch in my hand.
