If Red Vines Were a Woman...

If Red Vines were a woman, they would be your corporate co-worker who works at a different branch. You only see her a few times a year at the corporate meetings, but when you do see her, you always have a fling.

Red Vines come in two main delivery methods: the iconic tub and the movie-theater box. You buy the tub of Red Vines at Costco for your church picnic, you impulsively buy the box of Vines while waiting in line for Star Trek—but whatever method you happen upon the Red Vines, you never specifically went out to the store to buy them. You never had a specific craving for them. Just like your co-worker fling.

Your eyes meet across Conference Room B in the Radisson. You both stepped outside to "get some air." You casually started up a conversation over drinks. Maybe this time will be different; maybe this time you won't fall into that primal passion that seized you during last year's quarterly review. But like that first sensual bit into the Red Vine, when the twisted waxy ridges smoosh between your front teeth, you are ensnared.

You can't consume them just once. There is something comfortably familiar yet erotically exotic about the Red Vine and the co-worker. Before you know it, you've eaten 17 Vines and you've missed your boss's presentation on "Interoffice Efficiency."

But as much as you loved the weekend, you don't love them. As pinkish and gummy as your spit is, as wonderful as the romance was, you bid adieu once the tub and the agenda are empty. Even though you love curling her hair, her long, hollow, red strands, around your fingers, you don't buy another tub and you don't call her until the next meeting.

You never see people snacking on Red Vines at home, alone. And you never see people seriously dating their inter-branch co-workers. That's because the Red Vine and the office romance find their deepest shade of red, their deepest passion, when there is a pretense for their existence.