"If you want to be a hit at a party, you absolutely must have a good cocktail story," Nancy said. As hostess and a Vice President at DigiDesign, it was her right to make such assertions, and to expect one of her guests to rise to the occasion. Jeremy, the new DigiDesign PR guy, a highly recommended hire on the part of Nancy, was lucky to have several stories tonight. He asked for permission to tell two, to start, and Nancy and the guests urged him on. He drew a sip of his Manhattan, cleared his throat, and started.
   The first story was about the time he took his massive Saint Bernard to the vet. The cranky old geezer, who must have weighed ninety pounds soaking wet, insisted Jeremy coax the sick old ox up onto the stainless steel surgical table. Jeremy protested but, when the vet threatened to leave, gave his dog a firm whack on its rear end and got him up there okay. When the vet moved in to have a closer look, the monster dog—which did not have a mini-barrel around its neck—lunged at him, landing on his chest. The vet promptly had a heart attack and died. "It was terrible," Jeremy said in conclusion. "Terrible."
   The table, populated mostly with well-dressed DigiDesign co-workers, erupted. Jeremy continued. Story #2 involved another big dog, which was visiting. This was after the murderous Saint Bernard had kicked the bucket. The guest dog had an Alpha Male complex, which caused it to bully the smaller, resident dog around, preventing it from accessing its food at mealtime and otherwise being, generally, a thug.
   One day the little one caught the Thug Dog eating from his bowl. Thug Dog was standing, and thus prone from behind. So the little one came out of nowhere and bit Thug Dog right on the testicles, causing him to jump, literally, a foot into the air and run away whining.
   "Suffice it to say," Jeremy finished, tugging on the end of his brown mustache. "That big fella never bullied the little one again, and when it ate, it did so sitting down."
   The table erupted again, and Nancy edged closer to Jeremy, at least as far as he could tell, causing him to blush. Jeremy sat back in his chair, sipped his drink and fielded questions and comments, easing his right foot contentedly in and out of his dress loafers. The co-workers and friends, mostly just Nancy, asked if the stories were real, following those questions up with more specific ones relating to the death of the vet (he didn't actually die in his office, but at the hospital later on) and the health of the bitten dog (he seemed okay afterward, just a little frazzled). Out of nowhere, Jeremy felt Nancy's foot on his. It ran the length of his foot, from his ankle to the tips of his toes, and then it was gone. Jeremy was now aroused, and bright red.
   Later in the evening, with the Vodka Martinis Nancy made beginning to take hold, the stories got darker and more sinister. Chris Smith, a designer who used to work in Silicon Valley, told everyone about the time he wrapped his Nissan Altima around a telephone pole and walked away with only a broken fingernail. Chris's friend Justin asked if he had to pay for the pole. "No," Chris said. "The pole was fine, too."
   Nancy talked about the time her kid sister forgot to feed her hamster for a month and it starved to death. When she was done, and the guests had finished asking about the state of the hamster upon the discovery of its corpse (it was decaying—the smell was what finally caught their attention) and their parents' course of action (the sister had to bury the hamster herself), Jeremy pulled out his tale about the time he was caught cheating on his girlfriend with her boss at Nu-Innovation Software Design, which girlfriend then threw his possessions, one by one, out the window. His sock drawer, woosh. His 1969 Fender Telecaster, woosh.
   "I didn't think she'd throw the iMac and I pleaded with her not to," he said, kicking back the rest of his drink. "But there it went, ka-blam!" Jeremy also mentioned, briefly, the time in his childhood in which he hit his sister on the head with a meat tenderizer. "I don't know why I did it," he said. "I didn't mean to hurt her."
   That last story sputtered out at the end, half because it wasn't really that funny to begin with, half because Nancy was standing up. She asked to be excused and, when everyone said it was okay, hurried out of the dining room, the clip-clap contact between her stiletto heels and the hardwood floor turning the hallway briefly into an echo chamber. Jeremy followed longingly with his eyes until she disappeared into a room on the right.
   The conversation shifted to sports. Nick Kaufman, who worked in HR, was sure the Seahawks were going to be the team to beat this fall, and that their new uniforms would make the difference.
   "You can't overestimate the power a team's uniform has on their collective psyche," he said, his delivery verging on definitive. "Think about the Tampa Bay Buccaneers. How many consecutive losing seasons did they have back when their colors were orange and yellow?"
   It went on until it started to blur, and still no Nancy. Justin suggested calling her to see if everything was okay, and the other guests thought that was a good idea. Raising their voices a little, the DigiDesign set sent their requests echoing down the hallway. "Nancy, are you okay?" "Hey Nancy!" When there was no response, Chris and Nick appointed Shirley, the administrator who hadn't really said much all evening, to go back and check on the hostess.
   Jeremy started to worry. Had the foot-caress been a discreet invitation to join her in bed? Was she waiting there for him? Had he missed a sign or two, and had his window of opportunity closed as a result?
   When Shirley re-emerged, Nancy was at her side. The tight dress pants and low-cut shirt she'd been wearing were gone, replaced by flannel pajamas. Her brown hair, which had been in a tight bun at the back, was down. She was wearing slippers.
   "Sorry guys," Nancy started. "Something I ate must not have agreed with me. I started to feel sick, so I went to the bathroom. Then I fell asleep on my bed. But please, guys, feel free to stay for a while."
   Jeremy scanned her over. Her hair was messed up. Her lips were dry and pale pink. She really had been sleeping. Not wanting to impose, the other guests started making excuses to leave: "Well, I've got to wake up early tomorrow" or, "Well, time to check up on the kids." But though he tried to think of a good excuse, Jeremy couldn't come up with anything. He didn't have any kids and, like Nancy, he lived alone. Besides, his heart was there with her. If she wasn't well, by golly, he would stay there until she felt better. He'd ask her where the Campbell's Condensed Chicken Soup was and make her a bowl. If her stomach hurt, he'd find a heating pad. Anything for her. So it was that he remained seated at the table after the others had gone, and the clicking of the clock was the only sound left in the apartment.
   Nancy was still in the entrance to the dining room, leaning against the doorframe. Jeremy decided she was even more beautiful in pajamas than in work clothes. This just proved what he already knew—that she was effortlessly radiant: a curvy, natural beauty. He scanned her in reverse, moving from her feet to her eyes. Their eyes met.
   Jeremy could feel his heart pounding inside him. He was in love. He could see it all as a press release: DigiDesign Announces Marriage Between Vice President and Director of Public Relations. The copy would flow from his hands. It would be the crowning achievement of his life—the point of confluence between his professional pursuits and personal life. DigiDesign, it would start, the Seattle-based software design firm, today announced the marriage of Nancy George, VP of Marketing & Communications, to Jeremy Hudson, Director of Public Relations.
   "Jeremy?" Nancy said. But he was lost in his press release.
   This announcement solidifies the DigiDesign Marketing & Communications department, one regarded by many as the strongest in western Washington. The marriage, set to take place June 30, will leverage George's considerable management skills and Hudson's keen eye for details.
   "Hey Jeremy," Nancy said.
   And suddenly he was there again, gazing into her eyes.
   "Goodnight," she said, and she was gone.

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