Box

An Indian man has just delivered a box to my door. No signature required? Head shake. Nor Ma'am.

What, just the box? That seems a little odd doesn't it. I look at the thick white cardboard for some reassurance and find the word 'Customs'.

I once got done for leaving a suspicious bag at the passport office here in Auckland. My beta half had to go to some bother to extricate his wife from that little drama. Of course, anyone can forget their bag (can't they?). Perhaps I was pregnant at the time. I have been pregnant for twenty-eight months in total (three nines plus one month for the extra week-plus for each baby). Hopefully this is not a suspicious box.

The box is now on the arm of the couch: Priority Mail, must be important. The Indian man dashed off as flashingly as he had arrived, leaving the box squatting there like an awkward visitor.

The box is for C1, as it turns out (I read the fine print). His name appears in font no larger than anything else written on the box, annoyingly. What has he ordered, I wonder; and who paid for it?