Veronica
At the curb outside my apartment building, Clara pops the trunk on her small SUV and we round the car, staring, shivering in the biting January air. The size of the desk chair looked completely normal on display in the store, but the nondescript box it comes in—in pieces—is massive. Standing outside the store, we weren’t sure it would fit.
The answer is no, it did not fit ... and yet we made it. The corners of the box are smashed, but the salesman assured us that the contents would be fine because of all the Styrofoam. I really hope he’s right, because this chair cost an arm, a leg, and a chunk of my self-respect when I remembered I’d have to send Jude the receipt.
Now to get it out of the car.
With us both bundled in our heavy winter gear, we look like marshmallow Peeps. It takes one of us squeezing into the collapsed back seat and the other pulling from the outside to get the box out, but we manage. I take one side and Clara takes the other, and we side-shuffle our way toward the doors to my building.
“We should have taken it out of the box,” she says, out of breath.
“And ruin the fun?” I lift my leg, reaching my foot for the handicap button to automatically open the doors.
“I’m such a nice sister.”
I laugh. “Is this a good time to remind you that I built all of the IKEA furniture for Dani’s room?”
She grunts and I take that as a retraction.
At the elevators, I reach forward again with my foot, managing to hit the call button. The doors slide open with a cheerful little chime, with no idea how much trouble they’re about to cause me.
“It’s not going to fit,” Clara says, staring at the tiny European-inspired lift.
“It will,” I insist. “Just angle it and ...”
But Clara seems to think ramming forward is the answer.
One corner of the box slams into the doorframe with a hollowthunk. The box stops dead, wedging the doors open.
I laugh over the top. “Amazing. Well done.”
“Shit.”
Clara reaches over the box, leaning in, trying to free it. Her hand must graze the Door Close button, because the elevator doors begin to chomp down on the box, the buzzer blaring into the empty marble lobby. I’m glad it’s only noon and the mail gang isn’t here to witness this.
“Need a hand?”
We turn. And for one disorienting moment, the rest of the lobby blurs. It’s Friday standing there, grocery bag dangling from one hand like he’s walked out of some casually perfect lifestyle ad. And he’s smiling one of those easy, warm smiles that makes me immediately smile back without even trying.
“Do you happen to have a shrink ray?” I ask, straightening and swiping my hair off my sweaty forehead.
His eyes crease with amusement. “No shrink ray, but there’s a freight elevator in the alley.”
I gape at him. “Thereis?”
Friday’s smile is infectious. “How do you think they get furniture to the upstairs apartments?”
“That’s on the list of things I consider none of my business,” I say, and he laughs.
“What else is on the list?”
“Why the fifth floor always smells like beef stew, why the salesman today called me ‘Captain,’ and why Loud Kevin is so loud.”
“Oh my God.” Friday laughs again. “He issoloud.”
As is the elevator buzzer. We all turn back, jointly wriggling the box free from purgatory, and Friday capably picks up the entire thing like gravity is just a suggestion.
“What do you have in here, anyway? And please don’t say it’s a pony, or I’ll never be able to get back to work.”
