Halltalks: Story No. 2

I slipped into the hallway for the eighth time in what had threatened to become an interminable 3 hours, wondering whether I'd make it to lunch without imploding in a puff of polyester and sawdust. With a sidelong glance at the "overhead light sensors" (aka "slave monitors") hanging derisively at regular intervals down the length of the hallway's popcorn ceiling, I felt behind me to make sure my shirt was well-tucked and no belt slippage would provide fair grounds for ritual ostracization and commensurate dismissal.

A person in my position, can never be too careful. Even the likes of Janet Jackson, mistress of pop, diva of dance, are susceptible to the disastrous effects of wardrobe malfunction. What's a stealth-mode operative like me to do when faced with the choice between the safety of the mission and the aggravation of relentless re-tucking?

I grabbed my collar by the sides, smoothed it along and gave it a tug for good measure.