You don't even like cake, do you?

It’s not safe here.

Danger lurks around every corner. Sweet, sugary danger. With sprinkes and cream filling.

You have no choice. You must face it head on. You take a deep breath and dash out of your office.

You avert your gaze and manage to avoid the sugar dusted holiday cookies in the next cubicle. You feint left and barely slide past the buckets of candy canes. As a coworker approaches with a plate of fudge squares, you duck into a room.

But then you run smack dab into tiny, frosted cakes.

You pause. You know that you should turn and keep walking. You should not reach out and pick up the tiny confection. You definitely know you should not take a bite from it.

But you’re weak.

For so long, you remained diligent. “I will not stuff my face with sugar and chocolate and candy and …” your thoughts grow fuzzy as your vision follows suit. You are relying on involuntary body behaviors now.

“Just one,” your tongue and stomach tell your brain. “It won’t hurt anything.”

You feel the tiny cube of cake between your fingers. It’s firm and squishy.

And that’s the last thing you remember.

When your eyes open, seven people are looking down at you.

You turn your head from side to side to assess the situation. You’re on the floor in your boss's office. When did that happen?

Like someone in a crime drama, you lift up your hands to examine your palms. They’re covered in chocolate, cake crumbs, sprinkes, icing bits, and pencil shavings.

“Can you hear me?” one of your coworkers firmly asks. “How many fingers am I holding up?” you notice that his pointer, ring and middle fingers are clean. Unlike yours.

Then you look down and see the plates. The pie pans. The empty plastic baggies smeared with oil. They’ve all been licked clean.

Feeling an itch, you reach for your ankle and discover that you aren’t wearing pants.

“What happ—“ you trail off.

Your boss emerges with a glass of water and a sympathizing smile. “I think you should take a personal day,” she gently tells you.

Someone helps you to your feet. Someone else hands you your pants. And you make your way to the car. Through the dessert-spattered hallways. Past the brownie-vandalized conference rooms. By the now-cloudy fish tank that contains no fish, but a single cupcake.

You leave sugary footprints almost the entire way to the elevator.