The Box

It’s Thursday night.

There’s a box.

On the floor.

Beside my bed.

It’s hidden from casual view by the chimney that’s in my room. Even from here, at the end of my bed, where I sit and I write….

I can’t see it.

Yet. I know it’s there.

I’m forbidden to open it.

He said no.

Not until after 6 p.m.

Friday night.

The closer to FNF the better…

The box sits.

Beside my bed.

Calling to me.

There are pictures.  I took them to amuse him.

Little narrations from the box.

Like the serpent in the Garden of Eden, teasing me to come closer, to peer inside.

 

But He said no.  Not just “no”.

But

No FUCKING way.

I’ve waited…

Since Wednesday morning, when I took it from the porch, brought it in, and ran my fingers over the plain brown wrapper.

Impatient.    Horny.     Needy.   Curious.

I had told Him it was coming. The box with the toys inside.  (why do I do that to myself??!!)

you cannot open it, you know.

And so it sits.

Beside my bed.

A different kind of torture.

But still.

Torture.