I once heard someone say that sculptures are like moving pictures. That's not to say that the pieces are alive or sentient. But that the fluidity of their third dimensional forms seem to give the audience a sense of movement. And that is exactly what I felt when I first set eyes on The Glass Lady. Made entirely of clear crystal, the life-sized figurine was the shining star of St Gerald's Art Gallery. People from all across the country came to see it, overcome by the intricacy of her flowing gown and the delicate strands of hair blowing in an invisible wind. But what truly drew the visitors attention was the woman's face. She appeared to be crying, crystalized tears running down her face. It was as though the artist had captured her in time, immortalizing her sorrow for all to see. I was enraptured. I had never seen anything quite so beautiful. Her eyes, like the Mona Lisa's, seemed to follow me as I moved. The small black plaque, where the artist's name was usually written, was blank. I remember asking the man next to me if he knew who had worked on the piece, but he too had no answer. No one seemed to know exactly who the artist was, only that they were a friend of the gallery's owner, and the only correspondence they had had with the director had been by telephone, and that they wished to remain anonymous. I stared in an equal measure of awe and puzzlement at the woman's crying face, and I remember thinking about the kinds of people who can create such beautiful art and not want to claim credit. But as I continued to stare into those shining glass eyes, I began to wonder if the sculpture was a manifestation of the artist themselves. That perhaps they too felt made of glass.

Ever since last year's Christmas party, my life at the office hasn't been the same.

The first few days after the "incident", as I've taken to calling it, I could barely bring myself to come into work at all. The following few weeks, I had tried to stay as inconspicuous as possible. I had to get used to the whispers whenever I frequented the ladies room, and the muffled laughter as I passed someone in the hall. I even grew used to the stares I received in the company breakroom.

A good piece of advice: never get too drunk at a company party, at least... not too drunk that you try and make out with your married boss, especially when his wife is sitting at the table beside him.

So, as you can probably guess, I wasn't filled with joy or excitement when I received the dreaded annual invite in my inbox. What I did feel was that all-too-familiar feeling of anxiety prickling at my stomach.

I let out a long breath through my lips, a technique I learned in my weekly therapy sessions. It did help. Somewhat.

"Are you alright, Trish?" That was Jessica, my coworker and one of the only friends I had left in the office.

I give her a reassuring smile, "Yeah, don't worry. Everything's fine."

She doesn't seem to buy it though, because the next second she's rolling her neon green swivel chair across the narrow hall and right into my cubicle.

"It's me, Trish. What is it?" she asks.

She doesn't even wait for a response, and instead leans over my shoulder to glance at my computer screen. When she sees the subject line of my most recent email, she winces sympathetically.

"Well..." she says, and I can see the gears turning in her head, trying to think of something positive to say. There isn't.

"Look, it doesn't really matter. I'm not going." I say, exiting my email with a loud click.

Jessica's brown eyes widen imperceptibly, as if she's really shocked that I would choose to avoid the chance to embarrass myself for a second time.

"But you have to go," she says, "what happened last year is old news. You can't just avoid every office party until you retire... or quit... whatever comes first. You have to face your fears at some point."

When I don't say a word, she shoves my shoulder.

"Quit it. I'm trying to work here." I say, shoving her back, "and why do you care, anyway?"

"Because," she whines, "I can't go to this party alone."

I roll my eyes, "Gee, thanks. Hey, why don't you ask Jeff to go with you?"

I can almost see the face she's making, even with my back turned. It's no secret that every woman in the office has a crush on Jeff Goodacre, the best consultant in our office. He has that perfect polished look about him; clean hair, shaven, crisp collar, great smile. He's clever and polite to a fault. Probably the best consultant in the whole damn company.

Sometimes he seemed just a little too perfect. But aside from Jess, he's the only one who's shown me any kind of compassion or civility since the incident last Christmas.

Jessica scoffs loudly, "as if he wouldn't already have a date. Or three." A sigh, "but... I guess a girl can dream."

It's now quarter past five, and most of my colleagues have already left for the day. Jessica pulls on her puffer jacket and her gloves, her long blonde hair draped over her shoulder.

"Are you coming?" she asks, pausing at my desk.

"No, I have to finish some of these reports first. I should be done within the hour."

She shrugs, and then blows me a little kiss, "get home safe."

"You too."

An hour goes by and the remaining few people working have long since left. Most of the lights on my floor have been shut off, and the glow from my computer screen now seems insanely bright in the relative darkness.

I'm always struck by how quiet it gets without all the regular chatter and work noise. The only sound that can be heard is the low hum of the air conditioning and the clicking from my keyboard.

A wave of exhaustion washes over me, and as I think about the forty-five minute drive ahead of me, I decide it's probably time to wrap up and head home. But first I need to use the restroom.

As I'm exiting the ladies room, I hear a sound coming from down the hall. It sounds like the staircase door being opened.

I step out of the little enclave where the restrooms are and peer down the dark hallway. It's empty. I worry for a moment that the tiredness is getting to me, but then I hear footsteps. Thud, thud, thud.

Someone else is definitely here.

I wait, listening. From the corner of my eye, I see a man walking through the row of cubicles. I catch sight of his face in the glow of my computer screen as he passes by my desk.

It's Jeff.

I breathe a sigh of relief, realizing that a small part of me worried it was an intruder.

I'm about to call out to him, let him know that I haven't just forgotten to shut down my computer for the day but was trying to finish up some work.

My voice falters when I notice the look on his face.

He's... smiling. But not a happy or even pleasant smile. It's mocking. Mean. And I know that I've become the office pariah this past year, but Jeff never saw me like the others did.

Or rather, I thought he didn't. Now I'm not too sure what to think. I watch in disbelief as he sits down at my desk and begins scrolling through my work. His shoulders are tense and his head is drawn low. His face contorts.

I can't help but jump when his fist comes crashing down on the keyboard. He begins muttering. Through a string of curse words, he mentions the party last year, our boss, my drinking. Calls me a tramp.

Instinctively I reach into my pocket to grab my keys, but my heart drops when I realize they're still sitting in my purse in the desk drawer, along with my jacket. Hopefully he doesn't notice them and realize I'm still here.

As if he can hear my thoughts, he spins around. I push myself flush against the wall, hoping he doesn't notice me. I hold my breath, blood pounding in my ears.

I've never felt this scared in my life. It's as if all the muscles in my body are wound like coils, just waiting to spring.

A few moments pass, and I hear the door to the staircase being opened again. I peek around the corner.

The office is empty. Jeff is gone.

I hurry back to my cubicle and collect my things, fingers fumbling to pull on my jacket as I head to the elevator. No way in hell am I taking the stairs.

I watch anxiously as the buttons light up on the elevator panel. Third floor, second floor, first floor... basement.

The elevator doors barely have a chance to open before I'm stepping off into the parking lot. A wave of relief washes over me when I spot my green Toyota Camry fifty feet away.

I reach into my purse to grab my keys, and falter. The pocket is empty. My keys are gone.

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.