“I Drove My Drunk Office Enemy Home. Her Roommate Opened the Door and Said: ‘Oh — so YOU’RE the one she saves emails from.’ The folder was called ‘Mason Being Infuriating.’ There were 47 emails in it.”

Her eyes cut to mine. The bar noise dropped out.

“You were arguing against me all week,” she said.

“I was arguing against the rollout schedule. The concept was solid.”

She stared at me the way someone stares at a vending machine that just gave them the right snack by accident. Then she laughed — not the measured, controlled laugh she rationed out in meetings. A real one. Loose. Surprised. Like it escaped before she could stop it.

It did something I am not going to be clinical about.