There’s a small USPS box on my bookshelf. It’s bundled up in copious amounts of packing tape and covered with stickers like “GLASS” and “FRAGILE” and “HANDLE WITH CARE.” It has my address on the mailing label, and was sent via priority mail, but I can’t open it yet.
No, I have to wait until my birthday next week.
Boyfriend’s orders, and all that.
Which means I have about a week to sit and wonder and imagine what could possibly be inside this mystery box, and to resist the temptation to open it ahead of schedule because, well, it’s right there.