Unknown Sender
I'm no stranger to online delivery.
In fact, the Amazon delivery driver now knows me by name. I always keep track of what I order and when. So, you can imagine my confusion and disappointment when instead of a new Gucci purse and belt, I'm greeted by a haphazardly-wrapped little box on my front step. No stamp, no return address, not even a note. Just my name written in swirly cursive letters on the top of the box.
I bring it inside, never one to refuse a gift of any kind. The brown wrapping paper comes off in one clean tear and underneath is a small shoebox, probably only big enough to hold a pair of child's shoes.
But there are no shoes inside. There is, however, a black leather journal. Odd.
Tentatively, I pull it out of the box and set it on my lap. The leather is smooth, not grainy. Very sleek. But who would have left this for me, and why?
I pull back the cover.
On the top left hand side of the first page is the date: January 7th, 2023.
The writing is pretty, with the same big swoopy letters used to write my name on the box. So that means whoever wrote in this journal is probably the same person who left it outside my front door.
I feel hesitant to continue reading, but I don't think I can stop now.
I tap my feet in nervous energy as I read the first entry:
January 7th, 2023
I watched her today. Waltzing around in that little black dress, a white shawl draped
over her shoulders. Her brown hair was pinned up at the top of her head. If you
squinted, she could have almost passed for Audrey Hepburn. She looked like the
picture of class. HA! If only everyone at the party knew what she really got up to in
her spare time. If only Todd knew, if only he'd see -
The journal slips from my grip and falls to the floor with a dull thud. Suddenly the room feels much too small and my sweater much too tight. I pull at the collar in agitation.
Who the hell wrote this?
I pick the journal back up off the floor and skip forward a few pages. I settle on another entry, this one dated April 18th, 2023.
April 18th, 2023
She likes coffee with extra cream and sugar. I should have guessed the princess
would have such delicate taste. Heaven forbid she handle a little bit of
bitterness. Life can be bitter sometimes. I'm not surprised she doesn't know this.
Perhaps I should show her.
Absentmindedly, I skim through one entry after another, the tone becoming more and more vitriolic.
One specific entry catches my eye and I pause. This one is recent.
November 1st, 2024.
Todd must be either a complete idiot, or totally lovesick not to realize what kind of
floozy he's been sharing his bed with. I saw her today. I was this close to confronting
her. For the first time in 5 years, I finally mustered up the courage to look her dead
in the eyes and tell her she was going to pay what what she'd done. But then this
waiter nearly knocked me over with a plate of stale mini quiches, and when I looked
back up, she was gone. Maybe it just wasn't the right time. That's okay. I'm
patient... I can wait.
I slam the journal shut, my breath coming out in short gasps. I have the horrible sensation of someone's eyes on me, although I know for a fact there's no one else here.
"What she'd done"? What had I done?
I scan my brain, trying to think of any particularly negative interaction I've had in the past several years. I have my occasional bouts of anger on the street and sometimes I can be a little testy in the grocery store. But it doesn't make sense for a total stranger to hold onto a grunge over so small a thing for so long. And to follow me around, wanting to make me "pay"? The person would have to be completely deranged.
Unless... this isn't about me at all. The journal frequently mentions Todd throughout the various entries. Maybe it's someone he knows, or someone from his past.
A ring from the front door bell startles me from my train of thought, and I jump out of my seat, the journal falling out of my hands.
I can't see who it is through the stained glass window, so I take a peek through the peephole. There is a person dressed in some kind of delivery uniform, hat bent low over their head. They're holding a parcel under one arm and a clipboard in the other.
It must be the Gucci items I ordered.
I unlock the door. The delivery person is standing still as a stone on the porch, not moving an inch.
"Hello. Is that my package?" I ask, leaning forward to try and see the person's face from underneath their cap.
Suddenly, the person - woman - looks up at me. I can see that she's absolutely stunning, with tan, glowing skin, and bright green eyes. A few strands of wavy, chestnut colored hair have come lose from her pony tail, perfectly framing her face.
"This is for you." she says, handing me the parcel. Even her voice is pretty.
"Thanks." I take the parcel from her with a smile.
She doesn't leave. She stands in the same spot, unmoving, staring at me with a polite smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.
The moment lingers a bit too long and, wanting to end this awkward interaction, I gesture to the clip board tucked under her arm.
"Do I need to sign anything?" I ask.
She slowly pulls her stare away from my face and looks down at the clip board.
"Oh, yes. I do need one signature." she says, handing it to me. She reaches into her jacket pocket and pulls out a pen. She hands that over, too.
As I'm signing my name on the small black line at the bottom of the page, I can feel her eyes on me.
I finish signing and hand it back to her, but she stops me.
"There's one more line on the back." she says and the fake smile is back again.
The prior feeling of awkwardness is quickly molding into something worse. Slowly, I unclip the piece of paper from the metal clasp and turn it over in my hands. When I see the sentence written on the back, in those familiar curly letters, a chill runs up my spine.
It reads: there are no clumsy waiters here to save you. Time's up.