Getting onto the train today, I spotted a dainty box in the lap of an awkward boy I sat next to. It was shaped like a white gingerbread house and brushed with warm oriental flowers and unfamiliar red characters. It looked imported, but it was made of the thin cardboard Mike's Pastry uses, and he held it in his hands as though he'd only just acquired it.
I suppose this won't surprise you, but I was so stricken by the guy's parcel that I bumped into him. I apologized. He looked up at me to report that he was fine. I thought that was enough to serve as an invitation for my burning question.
"Where did you get that box?" I blabbed.
"Chinatown," he answered, looking pleased at my interest. And then, as if he knew it was inevitable, he peeled back the top flap to give me a peek. "They're Chinese treats; I don't really like them, but they're for a friend."
I guess I'd expected a collection of beads or thimbles or an exotic talking bird, but the fluffy breads kind of killed the magic. I looked down at the book in my hands.
"So... how are you?" he asked anxiously.
"Good," I sighed. "Glad to be done with work and headed for a nap." I smiled faintly and lifted my bookmark.
And that was how we failed to meet each others' expectations.
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