Last night, as I waited for the kettle to boil, something disturbing happened. I turned to my right, faced the hallway, and saw this:
A beige, metal box was mounted to the wall where stairs once led to the basement. It had a small lock asking for a key, but nothing else. The Box was both brand new and immutable, as if it had been there all along. Having never seen The Box before, I stared at it for several seconds, contemplating reality. The Box stared back, mocking me with its permanence.
Eventually, I decided that reality needed a second opinion. I made my way to the living room, half-convinced The Box would disappear in my absence. I asked EG about it. Her interest was piqued. She returned with me to the hallway, where we stared at The Box together. She had never seen it before either.
We discussed the possibility of contacting our landlady, asking if The Box had recently been installed. This would seem a silly question to ask if it had, in fact, been there all along, although we were sure it couldn’t have been. I replayed the past two and a half years in my head. Nope, definitely no Box.
Like Veronica Mars, EG got a chair and checked the top for dust. It seemed The Box had been there for a very long time.
I went upstairs and opened my computer, looking at all the photos we’ve taken during our tenure here, mostly from parties. I scrutinized each shot for evidence of The Box. The Box proved elusive. In every photo, it was hiding just out of the frame or behind someone’s head.
Finally, I found proof.