A Red Box with a Blue Ribbon

That is what I got on Valentine's Day this year. The box was painted red. With a permanent marker (the pungent smell of a marker is probably as permanent as the ink). And the blue ribbon was a strip of cloth torn out of something else. I didn't want to dwell on what it could be. Letting my imagination run wild is often a bad idea. Especially since I live on my own. With a window that overlooks midnight blue from 6pm onwards. Not that I mind the color, I think it's lovely. In fact I look great in the almost midnight blue sweater that a friend gave to me last week. I love her to bits. And her little baby is a little pillow with the most adorable chubby cheeks. (Note: I did not say the most adorable chubby cheeks EVER, like some people invariably does).

Getting back to the box, it didn't have a name tag, nor was I completely sure it was intended for me. But it was left in front of my door. What else could I do but take it, right? I thought so too. And when I opened the box, I realized two things: 1) that I really shouldn't have opened it, and 2) it was intended for me.







And that is how the short story In my shoes jumps into the narration of a small but significant aspect of a girl's predicament about life and men. The things she finds in that box takes her back to different parts of her personal history that had once appeared to be unrelated and unimportant. The objects in the box, when placed together, reveal how they are all tied together.

(In my shoes is still in its editing stages, but the author allowed us a sneak preview!)