Unlike the first, my second delivery was to courier 15 long-stemmed yellow roses to the client's abode. I arrived with the bouquet a little ahead of the appointed time, and was asked to wait. The client wasn’t home yet and hadn’t left the payment with the maid. With no other option, I took a seat and looked around the well adorned drawing room. That was the moment I first laid my eyes on it; it was a lighter.
The object immediately captivated me and I uncomfortably shifted my weight to angle my line of vision elsewhere; I knew where this was going, but alas, I couldn’t escape it. The lighter continued to glitter at the corner of my eye and I could feel the attraction getting stronger. I closed my eyes, but almost immediately, my disobedient mind began envisioning it. Cold sweat broke over my forehead and my heart thumped violently. There it was, resting on the side table, a perfect shade of blue and black. I opened my visual devices for a final peak and noticed an engraving of some sort on its body. What was marked on it? Initials, perhaps? Or was it the label of the manufacturer? A personalised note maybe? My curiosity led me to my doom.
I looked around for possible witnesses and found none, as I stealthily moved towards the most fascinating object in the world, and pocketed it quickly. Everything became hazy after that; my mind remained a prisoner to the thoughts of my latest possession. I remember smiling involuntarily at the thought of the lighter which had, by then, grown into a full blown out obsession.
The mania continued until I brought home a pair of cuff links from my next delivery. From the fourth, I took a topaz colored guitar pick. The poor thing was lying ignored on the floor! They say, nothing haunts the heart more than guilt, but I felt no inch of it. In fact, the highlight of my existence became these flower deliveries or more accurately, the objects I brought back from them. That was, until someone stole me.
The day was windy when he arrived. My boss loved old, soft music and a particular favorite of mine was playing when he entered the store. Introducing himself as the new employee, my colleagues greeted him while I just stared. Stared and repeated his name in my head every time someone said it. It wasn’t his face, or his hair, or his voice or anything that could be explicitly pointed out. He was on a whole, a very attractive person. I didn’t believe in love at first sight, but now the concept started to make more sense. Assuming soul mates do exist then we should be able to instinctively identify our significant other, right? Eventually, it was my turn to introduce myself. He said his name and offered his hand to shake. Seeing him just inches away from me broke the trance. I smiled, introduced myself and made his acquaintance.
It all started rather smoothly on the surface, how I felt inside was another story. We worked the same shift as I and what started out as amicable chats soon became intensely great conversations. He told me about his life, his days, his interests and I listened. My experiences were far fewer than his, but I believed I had more to hide. No one could love a thief.
I intentionally avoided doing home deliveries. Spending time with him was a far superior pleasure and I didn’t even feel a need to look at my, ‘’acquired gifts,’’ anymore. My mind was entirely engrossed in him, but then, my luck ran out. One fine day, just three weeks after he joined, an urgent delivery was requested. Five sticks of every colored orchid we had. There was no one else to run the delivery so the responsibility became bestowed on myself. I cried inside. I didn’t want to steal anymore. I wanted to be good, the kind of person who would deserve something innocent for once.
‘’Sir, could I go with her?’’ His inquiry broke my train of thought and relieved me from my worries. I knew he would be the perfect distraction. I’d be so occupied with him that I would never feel the urge to take anything, or so I thought.
The harmonica was my favorite shade of brown. I tried concentrating on him. His words, his voice, his eyes; all I had to do was wait it out but the feeling was too overwhelming. I became nauseous. I rushed to the washroom and threw up, cried a little too. I wasn’t strong enough to fight my addiction. I waited for a while longer and then walked back into the room, contemplating ways to have the object in my possession. From the doorway I saw him fiddling with something in his hand. He was practiced, smooth.
He pocketed the harmonica and I gasped. He looked up, terrified as I looked back, relieved.
