She is there, somewhere inside, I know. Her face calls to me with its mournful gaze, deep soulful eyes, and premature frown lines. Even from across the room, I see her fake a smile, absently brushing long bangs away. Her dress bulges slightly at the hip, as if it doesn't fit right. She, like me, is out of place, making the right motions in order to fit in, but meaning nothing. I walk over to her, try to initiate her in conversation.

     "Hey," I say. She turns, startled for a second, not having seen me walk over. "What's your name? I saw you from by the food bar, and I felt I just had to meet you." She smiles, but I can tell it is fake.

     "It's Eliza, and you are too kind." We exchange small talk for a moment, and as I speak to her, I long to break through the barrier she has placed around herself, even for a moment. Yet, in an awkward moment of silence, I am pulled away by a coworker. When I finally turn back, she is gone.

     I see her later, by the food bar. Her hand never leaves her hip. It is as if she is ashamed of herself now, or her clothing.

     The grandfather clock strikes ten, and as the last toll sounds throughout the room, she turns, suddenly darting away, out the doors and toward the garden.

     I am the only one that notices. I try to break away to follow her, but by the time I escape, I hear a shot from the garden. Suddenly, it all made sense: the lumpy dress, her obsession with her hip, the resigned nature in which she held herself.

     Conversation breaks off and there is nothing but silence. Then, there is pandemonium. Many rush away to different rooms and some simply remain where they are, but I am the only one that dashes toward the garden.
     I am too late.