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The next morning, I was one of the few people in the office before 8 a.m. I drafted a letter for a client who sought to repudiate a contract with a supplier.
Harold startled me when he crept around the corner and whispered loudly, “Lana, what are you working on?”
“A client letter,” I gasped with surprise.
“We all saw you dancing with that guy last night,” teased Harold, a tall, heavy-set blonde from Minnesota.
“Uh, huh,” I said.
“Lana, I almost didn’t recognize you,”
“Why?”
“Your outfit. Normally, you dress like my granny.”
“Your grandmother has good taste.”
“She shops at garage sales,” Harold confessed with a twinkle in his eye.
I sighed a deep breath and promised, “Next time I’m out, I’ll give your phone number to the creepiest men I encounter.”
“Mine? Give them Eric’s.” Harold joked while sauntering back to the IP department.
I tried to focus on reading a contract, but was distracted by a text: Hey Batman, wassup!
I wrote back: You’re up early.
He responded: I never went to bed!!
Super busy, we’ll talk later, I replied, because I realized that the office staff was staring at me. I worried they’d say I spent too much time texting.