I walked into my day job a few minutes late this morning, and two of my co-workers immediately ran at me with flowers.
Apparently, one of our accountants gets flowers from her husband on a regular basis, and one of our HOA managers (who is single, as far as I know; I don’t really
care pay attention to these things) has expressed a fair amount of envy over it. So the rest of the accountants got together and decided to make her feel special by sending a surprise bouquet from “an admirer.”
“Don’t let her know it’s from us,” they hissed. “Just call her and tell her she has a delivery.”
So I paged her and was all, “Hey, you have a package at the front desk,” and she eventually wandered up and saw the flowers. Her eyes narrowed to slits.
“Who are these from?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I replied noncommittally.
“Well, then how do you know they’re for me?” she asked.
“Your name was on them,” I lied pleasantly.
She turned and stormed into the accounting department and was all, “DID YOU DO THIS?!” and the accountants were like, “Of course not! You have an admirer.” And then I heard her say something about not actually seeing anything that identified the flowers as being for her, so I quickly scrawled her name across a Post-It, balled it up and tossed it in my trashcan. Moments later, she appeared back at my desk demanding to see proof of botanical ownership, so I pulled the note out of the trash and handed it to her, then went back to typing, while the accountants quietly high-fived each other behind her.
I figured they’d keep the facade going for a few minutes and then fess up, but instead they freaking committed. Word soon spread through the office, and now everyone is cooing over the flowers and asking her who she thinks might be sweet on her. And yeah, I went along with it at first and abetted or whatever, but I also didn’t expect the situation to last as long as it has. We’re now into hour six, with the accounting department starting to realize that telling the truth at this point might actually do some emotional damage.
Straight people are weird, y’all. Were this an office of gay men, the accountants would’ve hired a stripper and been all, “We did that and want full credit. Dibs whenever you’re done with him.”