05 May Quarantine and Chill: Chapter Nine.

This is a Science-Fiction Story and a complete work of fiction, meant entirely for entertainment. I write these stories as writing practice.

She placed the box on the living room table, making as much noise as possible, presumably to direct as much attention towards her endeavors as possible, “Woah, that’s heavy. What do you think is inside?”

I initially ignored her question, as I was too busy looking through the leather-bound notebook.

She became instantly impatient, stomped one of her feet on the ground, with her hands held at her hips, “Uh, Hello? I asked you a question.”

I deiced that now was a perfect time to try and annoy her so I took a few slow sips from beer, with my pinky finger raised. I know she hates when I do that, then I said, “Do I look like I have X-Ray vision?”

I knew my comment really irked her because she said, “Are you trying to piss me off?” Then she ran out of the room and returned with a razor that she threw at me, “Shave your beard you look like I don’t know what.”

I laughed in a particular obnoxious way, “Woman, my beard symbolizes quarantine fatigue.” I threw the razor back at her and then continued to say, “Why don’t you use the razor to open the damn box yourself?”

She was suddenly flabbergasted, “So, you’re back to being a dick?”

I hesitantly continued with my charades, “What good is a muse to me if she doesn’t enjoy riding me like an amusement park?”

She held her breath like she was trying to hold back her anger, “I don’t have time for your stupid metaphors. Can you open the damn box?”

I had to continue on with my macho man tirade, I couldn’t resist the opportunity to do so, “Your wish is my command darling.” Then I walked over to her and quickly pulled her yoga pants down so she was just standing there in her thong.

She promiscuously giggled, “Wrong box, idiot.” She pulled her pants back up and pointed to the box on the table.

I took my notecard out and added another tally mark to it. Then I walked over to the table and examined the box. There were no to or from stamps on it and the box was sealed with a single piece of tape.

I wanted time to properly think so I said, “Can you go get me another beer?” I then went and sat back down on the couch and continued to look through the leather-bound notebook.

She actually relaxed her temper, as she knows when I’m being serious. She left the room and quickly returned with another beer.

She sat down patiently on the couch with me as she watched me slowly look through the notebook. After about an hour of flipping through the pages, I looked at her and said, “I think we should wait a few weeks before we open that box.”

She responded with a heightened sense of intrigue, “What makes you say that?”

I got up from the couch, picked up the box and placed it on the closest shelf. I then turned to her and asked, “Are you familiar with Pandora’s box?”

She turned around, look outside of the window, then looked back at me, “Pandora? Like the music streaming platform?”

I dismissed the ignorance of her response as I knew she knew what I was talking about, “Mythology, darling, mythology. This is a contingency package.”

Before she had a chance to respond, the living room window broke and a bird flew in and smacked the shelf. It fell to the ground. I looked at her in surprise and then we both walked over to the deceased bird. It was a golden eagle and within it’s beak it carried a note. The bird literally looked to be made of solid gold.

I tried to make a jest of the situation, “Well woman, it looks like you’re not the only one breaking windows in this household.”

She appeared to be displeased with my comment, she looked at the bird and said, “I’m not touching that dead animal. You get the note.” She handed me some disposable gloves that were resting on the side table.

I rolled up my sleeves, put the gloves on and grabbed the note from the beak like I was some sort of forensic scientist. The note was dampened with mildew, but I could legibly see that it said: The World will pay its dues, one way or another.

I read it to her several times, I’m not entirely sure why, but I mean, it’s not every day that a golden eagle comes diving through your living room window.

My woman is a very smart, highly intelligent woman that has read and reads lots of literature. She walked over to a bookcase, selected a book and turned to a page that she already had bookmarked.

She flared her nostrils with arousal as she looked at me and said, “Do you know what the sign of a golden eagle means?”

I could sense her sudden rush of excitement and I fed off of that energy, “My understanding of mythology is elementary at best, but I think I remember reading that it would mean that we’ve inherited a gift from the gods, as seen through ancient Greek minds.”

She was astonished, “Wow. You’re actually somewhat correct, speaking in rather lament terms. You are smarter than I give you credit for.”

I winked at her and replied, “Must be our lucky day, darling. It’s about time we had some good luck.”

*To Be Continued In Chapter Ten.*