Box

I wait outside for half an hour before telling her I'm here. She says to come up and when she lets me in asks me what took me so long. I tell her traffic, she tells me I don't drive, I tell her I took a cab, and round and round we go.

The place is clean, the air smells sweet. Then I think it's maybe a little too clean, a little to sweet, a little too crime scene. I ask how she's been, busy, friends in town, parents, anything that might give credence to this habitat. She walks into the bedroom, her bedroom, as she tells me no. I want to follow so badly and I almost do, but I conquer my habit as she returns with the box.

The Box. The Box of Stuff. Everyone has one, sooner or later. I check through it without looking, the thing that keeps me reading on the same page forever and ever. She tells me it's all there, I tell her I know, she tells me it's all there again. And it's true. It is all there. All of it's there in this box.

I move slowly to the door while compassing with my eyes; a jacket, some shoes, anything. The sweetness is sickly at this point, the unfortunate amalgamation of pine and lemon and fresh spring and perfume. Or intentional. I see nothing. Maybe I'm not looking close enough.

The obligatory it was good to see you. The pause and then decision against the hug. The long dark of Moria back to my friend's couch. I have so much there already. And there's nothing in here I really need. And I could set it down, but I might go hurtling into the stratosphere.