She stood at the office fridge at six in the morning, spoon in her mouth, eating my yogurt like she paid for it—with her badge still around her neck and my name written in Sharpie on the cup.
No apology, no shame, just chewing like nothing mattered while I stood there frozen, watching the cherry smear on her lip.
I wasn’t even mad about the yogurt anymore. I was mad about what it said—that people like her get away with everything because they smile in meetings and talk soft in HR rooms.
But not this time.
This time I caught every lie, tracked every step, and made sure the whole building watched when the truth hit the fan—and it won’t go down the way anyone expects.
Cherry‑Vanilla Vanishing Act
The office fridge wheezes like an asthmatic walrus when I tug the handle.
My yogurt is gone. Again.
The shelf looks surgically cleared, every other container nudged aside as if making room for humiliation. I stand there gripping an empty air‑space where my lunch should be, tasting the faint metallic tang of foil that never met my spoon.
I’m forty‑two, a senior financial auditor paid to track pennies that wander off ledgers, yet I can’t protect a five‑ounce cup of cherry‑vanilla bliss. The irony sours on my tongue faster than spoiled milk.
Tom texts a selfie of our fourteen‑year‑old, Lila, holding her first learner’s‑permit booklet. Pride flickers, but hunger punches harder. I thumb back a thumbs‑up while my gut growls like a garbage disposal stuck on silverware.
Marcus, the intern, drifts by in socks and slides—violation of at least three corporate dress codes but nobody cares because he codes faster than he blinks. He slows, eyes the hollow spot in the fridge, and smiles like a kid watching glass shatter. “Rough morning, Claire?” Popcorn butter slicks his fingers. I track the grease stains he sprinkles across the door handle and imagine dusting them for prints.
Denise from HR appears next to the coffee maker, pristine blouse pressed hard enough to draw straight lines. She offers me a brochure on “Positive Approaches to Conflict.” The pastel clip art of handshake silhouettes looks like two mannequins bartering kidneys. I decline with a smile that creaks at the edges.
Is a stolen yogurt petty? Yes. Is it an omen? Also yes. Missing food signals a culture where boundaries dissolve. Numbers on spreadsheets skip town. Trust erodes one plastic lid at a time. I think of Tom’s layoff last winter—executives bled the pension fund first, salaries later. Theft starts small until it doesn’t.
I open Slack, toss a message into the break‑room channel: “Anyone see a wandering yogurt cup? Red foil, cherry‑vanilla.” A chorus of shrug emojis replies. Chloe from marketing drops a GIF of a raccoon washing cotton candy in water until it vanishes. Fifty likes, no leads.
Stomach rumbling, I raid the vending machine for an oatmeal bar that tastes like compressed sawdust and sadness. While I chew, I list suspects the way Lila lists K‑pop rankings—fast, ruthless, a new order every minute. Marcus? Opportunist. Denise? Control freak with a secret sugar habit? Janine from Quality Control? She logs every calorie under a microscope; maybe she sees my yogurt as free data.
Five minutes to the weekly budgeting call, and I’m still staring at the fridge, willing it to cough up evidence. Instead it hums, door seals whispering mock sympathy.
The conference‑room screen flickers, numbers march across slides, but my mind stays locked on that empty shelf. I dot the margin of my notebook with tiny red circles—each one an imaginary yogurt lid. By the third column my pen snaps.
After work, I shove my laptop into my tote, ignoring Larry’s offer of a leftover ham sandwich. Pride is a blunt instrument; it bruises the wielder first. Leaving the building, I vow to myself—quiet, fierce, final—that tomorrow nothing disappears unchecked.
Justice hasn’t clocked in yet, but I have.
Neon Notes and Smoldering Glares
Tuesday 7:05 a.m., I raid the supply closet like it’s an armory. Neon Post‑its, fine‑tip Sharpies, double‑sided tape—contraband of the disgruntled.
At the fridge I start low: “Please respect others’ food.” The pink square practically purrs civility. Not enough. I add an orange: “Seriously.” A green: “Hands off the cherry‑vanilla.” By the time I finish layering, the door glows like a radioactive quilt.