Some of the tension eased from my shoulders. This was better. I wasn’t actually going to drink the whole six-pack, because then I wouldn’t be able to drive home and I’d have to—I shuddered—get a ride from a co-worker. But I could stay up here for ten minutes, drink this beer and eat my shitty cake, then go back downstairs a touch more relaxed and less likely to dropkick the rest of Sharon’s cake all over the break room.
