Unboxing- An ONC 2024 Novella

Chapter 1

"What did we do last weekend?" I moaned.

The weekend haze lingered like a stubborn mist, clinging to every corner of Katie's mind as she attempted to unravel the events. Five days. It took five days for the headache to subside and the general feeling of fogginess to diminish. Still, the night was a blur. Marlow arrived. The movie started: Mean Girls, just like we watch every Valentine's Day. The cork of the wine popped in a festive way that was alluring to my ears. As I poured the first glass, the crimson liquid bounced around the glass and clung to the slides before it came to a rest at the bottom. I savored the first velvety taste. Sweet cherry hugged my tongue before the oak undertone appeared. It took five days for me to remember the allure of wine and develop the will to sharpen the blurred memories that seeped into my mind like ghosts rising from the grave.

Marlow's bright and infectious laughter pierced through the haze like a beacon of clarity. "We watched Mean Girls, just like always," she chimed in, her voice tinged with amusement.

The movie's mention brought a flicker of recognition to my mind, a fleeting moment of clarity amidst the fog of forgetfulness. Yet, even as I grasped at the threads of memory, the details remained elusive, slipping through my fingers like grains of sand.

"I know that part, but now I have a box the size of my microwave sitting on my living room table, and I have no recollection of ordering anything," I groaned.

Marlow didn't even stifle her full laugh. "Hey, it's better than drunk dialing," she teased.

"Is it?" I let out a heavy sigh. "Well, I guess I should assess the damage."

"What? No!" Marlow protested.

"No? What? Do you want me to live with this unopened box like some Schrödinger's experiment?" I questioned.

"First, I don't think you can mail order a cat, and second, last week you gave this week you a present. You should open it graciously," she explained.

I shook the box as I heard things rattle around. "It sounds like last week me ordered this week me a number of presents. Or," Marlow continued with a mischievous tone, "perhaps it's a testament to the whimsy of the universe—a reminder that life is full of unexpected delights, waiting to be unwrapped."

"Even better! Cut a flap so you can't see in, and pull out a little bit of self-care every day until the box is empty. Honestly, I'm a little jealous that drunk me isn't as kind as drunk you," she declared.

I had to admit that Marlow's plan was enticing. How often did someone who knows me as well as I do buy me a present? Never, the answer was never! A spark of curiosity ignited within my chest as I regarded the box with newfound interest. Was it possible that my inebriated alter ego had left me a treasure trove of surprises, each waiting to be discovered?

"Okay, fine." I masked my fondness for the idea with a pronounced grumble. Marlow already thought she was the modern-day Nikola Tesla with her ideas on fashion and trends; I didn't need to add fuel to that fire. "I'll talk to you later," I added, hoping she would just absently say goodbye. It was a silly wish.

"Woah, woah, woah. You can't just 'talk to me later.' I want to know what's in the box. What's in the box? What's in the fucking box?" Marlow screamed. Immediately, I wondered if she was in public. She could be; that was Marlow. She didn't care what others thought. She would happily scream quotes from random movies in a crowded subway without a second thought.

"You know I hate that movie," I reminded her.

"No one likes that movie. We all just endure it," she joked in a sing-song tone.

"Okay, I will text you what is in the box," I resigned.

"Text me? Sweetie, do you think that is enough? I want a good ol' mid-2010s unboxing video. You know what, I don't want them... I need them. I need them like Brad Pitt needs to know what's in the fucking box.

"Fine. I will cut the flap, slip my hand into the unknown and record the whole thing like some twisted porn," I griped.

"That's my girl," Marlow's voice sounded like an August afternoon sun's bright glow. "I'll be home by seven. I expect a video in my messages," she directed.

"Whatever you say, princess," I grumbled before disconnecting the phone.

My eyes lingered on the box, the box of possibilities. With Marlow's words echoing in my mind, I felt a surge of anticipation coursing through my veins. Had I finally bought that sweater I have been eyeing for months? Did I fill my cart with facemasks and shower bombs so I could finally indulge in myself? Or, and this was far more likely, did I fill my car with sponges and toilet bowl cleaner because, even drunk, I was far too practical?

Only time would tell.