It is afternoon and I am in my cubicle with a throbbing headache, so I have put my head down on my desk. Two hands begin massaging my neck then slide alongside my ears to work on my temples. I sit up and open my eyes.
Without turning around, I glance over at my coworker who shares the cubicle; he is unsuccessfully pretending that he is not seeing what is taking place.
The hands belong to Gail, the daughter of one of the directors of the company. She is a good-looking, shapely brunette with a large head, and smooth pale skin. Gail asks if her remedial massage is working. It is working, so I thank her. There is a final squeeze of my trapezius muscles, then she smiles and walks away.
I am concerned that word of this interaction will reach her father.