The chipped porcelain mug felt cold in Professor Davies’s hands, a stark contrast to the boiling resentment that churned in her stomach. It was the annual departmental holiday party, and she was, as usual, seated alone at the periphery of the room, sipping lukewarm punch. A brightly wrapped package sat on her desk – a belated Christmas present. From *him*. Bartholomew Finch, the bane of her existence, now a successful venture capitalist. The smug bastard.
The wrapping paper, embossed with gold stars, crinkled as she tore it open. Inside, a leather-bound journal, far too expensive for a man who had barely scraped by in her History of Philosophy class. A handwritten note lay nestled within the pages. She skimmed it, each carefully chosen word a fresh irritant. “To the teacher who taught me the importance of… blah blah blah…” She crumpled the paper, the sound sharp in the otherwise convivial atmosphere.
She almost threw the journal in the bin, but a tiny, selfish voice in her head convinced her to open it. Perhaps it was filled with his terrible scribbles. The first page was blank, and the following pages were all empty too. He probably knew she would not use it, so he had sent her something she couldn't possibly be tempted to use.