Re: The stairwell to the eighth floor, 12:03 AM.
She dug her fingers into her hair, closing her eyes. This had to be a dream. Or a nightmare. Or bad Chinese food. There was no way things like this happened to people, not outside of wacky sitcoms or bad movies. Taking a deep breath, she glanced up at the salty dog, feeling a strange sensation as he spoke.
She agreed with him. It was weird, she knew, but what he said was making sense. She very easily could have been high. Her boss, Old Sol, was a leftover from the hippie movement. Though he had gone mostly straight these days - he was all about his grandkids now - she was sure he had a few little "secrets" stashed in the shop. It'd make perfect sense for her to have snuck a joint or three for a bit of relaxation after her stressful move.
Eyes widening, she nodded. "Yeah! Yeah, that-that makes perfect sense. We're high. Or drunk. Or both." Laughing, she wiped a hand over her forehead. "Well, I feel a lot better now. This must just be some weird...pot-induced fantasy. Though I don't know why I would picture myself green...and I don't know where I came up with you."