A man stares at the sad box. “Box, why are you so sad?” The box, refusing to answer the man, looks away in disgust. The history, which now became history. “Talk to me, Box,” pleads the man. Inert still, denying acknowledgement.

The box has always been empty. Smooth corners and sharp stripes veil inner deficiency, a fluffed blue bow tops the guise of perfection. The man sees and hears, all and none.

“Don’t you ignore me when I talk to you! You know I hate that!” Splatter and shatter of whiskey and glass to wall and carpet. Repulsive Frustration dines on the man. “Look at me, you–you–BITCH!” Ignition.

The boisterous doorbell acts accordingly. The man locks Frustration up, barking loudly, and answers the door.

A woman stands at the doorway, uniform brown, package held to her side, spewing her beautiful smile. The man returns the smile cocktailed with panic. Glance to the aloof box, and return. “Can I help you?”

“I have a delivery for you, sir,” she responds, holding up the package, also clothed in brown, also smiling aggressively. “Just need to sign here please.”

There must be some mistake. “There must be some mistake,” the man repeats, “I didn’t order a box.”

An innocuous chuckle at the man. “It’s not a box, sir, it’s a package.” She holds the package up from her side, and offers it to the man.

“Well–, listen,” the man starts, “I can’t accept this. I already have a box. It would do me no good to be keeping another lying around the house.”

The woman sighs, beautiful smile now gone, replaced with balked lips. “You live in an apartment, sir, and this is a package.” Offering still to the man, she continues, “This package has come a long way, and so have I, and, seeing as you weren’t expecting this, you can’t possibly know you won’t want what’s inside.”

Glance to the tattered package. Peeling tape and concave corners, a faint, boring musk oozes out of noticeable gashes in its armor. A soggy invoice, indecipherable. Conflicting wings bash about the man’s innards, lifeless arms twitching toward curiosity.

The box, absent this confrontation, calls to the man. Turning away from the woman, the man replies, “It’s just the mail lady, honey!” Facing back, he adds, “She was just on her way.”

A final attempt. “Sir, you don’t understand, I need you to accept this package, or I’m going to hear shit about it.”

“And you don’t understand,” the man counters, “I can’t accept this package, or I’m going to hear shit about it.” Denial feeds the flames of repulsion, and the man grasps his side’s doorknob. Reinforcement. “I need to you to go.” A door closes.

Respite complete. The man returns to the box, a miasma of indifference clouding the room. A lone, maroon armchair offers comfort amidst the reticent hostility. A thought to gather his thoughts, and the man sits. A thirst for water to quell this fire inside, intrusive thoughts made of lumber, endless fuel. A glance to a glare, transfixed on the cubic source of rage. No fever, yet engulfed in the flames of repressed hatred. No longer.

A possessed lunge at the box. The man tears at the bow viciously, meticulous art remodeled as reckless scrap. An angry child opening presents. The man hears the box shriek in torment, pleading for him to end her suffering, open to interpretation. He does, and beheads the monstrous container, revealing the horror within.

————————————————————-

The broken-down man ties up a brimmed garbage, topped with glass and whiskey and cardboard and blue. Heading to the door, the man drags the carcass-filled satchel, a weight relocated from his mind to his side. A twist of the doorknob, and a visitor. The unannounced package waits by the doorway, bubbling with stagnancy. The man looks beyond the package, seeking a non-existent deliverer. Kneeling to the package, he brushes his fingertips against the grainy, peeling tape, over the bruised, concave corners, ending on the scrawled, soggy invoice. A deep, appreciatory inhalation. Gentle fingertips remove scabbed tape, and open the wondrous package. Gazing inside, the man finally smiles wholly.

“I love you.”