the cold linoleum against her thighs, and she weeps.
Someone is in the shower, singing. I don't know the words.
She's holding something in her arms. I can barely make it out through the steam that clouds the mirror and sticks to my skin.
It's a package wrapped in black paper, boxed with bubble wrap, and stamped with the words 'Handle with Care.'
The box has a pulse.
A rhythm that's familiar, but I get the feeling it isn't supposed to be heard this way - muffled inside a box. The sound is hollow and sad.
I ask her why she can't open it.
She holds the box out and I look.
It isn't addressed to her.
Her hands tremble.
It isn't addressed to anyone.
She continues to cry.
The singing gets louder.
The melody is foreign and the words are in a language I do not understand.
I ask her why she won't mail the package to someone, anyone.
She tells me that everyone she knows has big, clumsy hands.
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