Sleepwalking

"You can't go to bed yet," my coworker Christina leans into me, splashing her third martini across my skirt. "Our first session tomorrow isn't until ten. C'mon, one more drink." Her words slur softly together like the snow and sleet falling on this January Chicago night. "Don't call him, babe. It's over."

Yawning I stand, brushing vodka droplets from my lap and glancing around me. All thirty six of our offices across the country have sent their top recruiters to the annual conference, most of whom now crowd the dimly lit hotel bar. Cocktail-fueled laughter and too-loud music echoes off the tiled walls and floor. I turn quickly to leave, Christina's pleas fading behind me.

I push through the crowd, sticky floor pulling at my heels. A recruiter from our Pittsburgh office grins wolfishly at me from his barstool. "Where do you think you're going? Buy you a drink?" His hand slides up the thigh of the young woman next to him. Her lovely face is flushed with alcohol, her dress low cut and tight on her tiny frame. She pushes his hand away, smiles awkwardly at me, signals the bartender for another drink. Rolling my eyes I continue past them, heels clicking into the quiet lobby, where I have the elevator to myself.

Ping! The 10th floor hallway is bright, sterile, silent. Exhausted, I make my way to my room, fumble with the key, kick off my shoes. The room is freezing, the window bright with snow and downtown's lights. Pouring myself wine from the bottle on the nightstand, I sit on the bed and reach for my cellphone. My call goes directly to my almost ex-husband's voicemail, "you've reached John, leave a message." Sad, cold, anxious, I hug the duvet around me, add more wine to my glass, flick the TV on.

My phone buzzing wakes me. Groggy with sleep and wine I fumble with the screen. A missed text from John: "Be good and don't sleepwalk," and one from Christina: "Come back! Everyone is doing karaoke!" I click John's number and again get his voicemail. Groaning, I roll off the bed.

Moments later I stumble into the frigid hallway, squinting against the lights as the door slams shut. I start toward the elevator, then startle. Staggering toward me is the young woman from the bar, drunk, clad in only a ice-blue thong, pulling desperately on every door. "Hey!" I say loudly. She freezes, fear and confusion in her blue eyes. She turns down her shoulders and eyes, moves her hands to conceal her bare breasts. "Hey," I murmur, "let's get you covered, okay?"

She lets me take her hand, pull her into my room, wrap the duvet around her shivering frame. I move to call the front desk as she slips out the door. "Wait!" I dash after her, "stop!"

The hallway is empty, the young woman vanished. In a panic I realize I am alone, wearing just a blue thong, and I can't find my room.