Bags and Boxes

A  man 's man , tall in stature, naturally disciplined is in desperate search for something and for the life of him he can't find it. Now in a great state of annoyance he calls up to his girlfriend. 

“Where is the bag?!” he shouts early in morning up the stairs to his girlfriend in a frantic state.

“What? What bag?” she replies as she just steps out of the bathroom starting her day.

“The bag, the little blue bag that had the flask in it?” he shouts back rushing his words.

What women in her right mind could respond to such a question without a drop of coffee in her system. Thinking upon this she goes to the location in his home where the gift bags usually are, next to the toilet paper in the guest bathroom. (Strange place, but it is the mind of a man who shapes his own home as he sees fit.) Retrieving the bag, in it's freshly folded state, it is then placed on the table. How those in a frantic state pay no attention that which is in front of them. Watching as the man she loves scurries about in the same small space looking for the bag as if he had some personal grudge with the last Where's Waldo book.

“Last place it was, was in the back seat of the car, where is should be, where the hell is the blue bag!”

“It's on the table.” she calls out.

“Where? I don't see it!” he yells back from the other room.

“There on the table, here on the table.” she replies pointing to the bag.

Coming out of the room he sees the bag and yet he's far from being pleased, because in fact the bag was not his true objective.

“What happened to the box?” he asks even more in a frantic state then when he started. Before she could utter a single word he continues. “you were so primed on bringing everything in last night from the car, what did you do with the box. The funnel to the flask is in the box, did you throw it out?!”

Calmly keeping her distance from this wild fox twitching with foam in his mouth she replies,

“I don't remember and with that attitude quite frankly I don't give a shit.”

Knowing she's tidy and organized he goes to the liquor cabinet and next to the flasks there he discovers his little black box and the tiny funnel that was located within.

“Why do you have to move shit!?” he shouts absolutely annoyed.

Thinking to herself this manly man of man hers has transformed into a five year old boy, not saying a word or really listening to his rant of hysterics.

“Do me a favor?!” he shouts which catches her attention. His face now red with fury and much like that five year old boy patients simply doesn't exist.

“Stop moving my shit! You know how stressed I get when I can't find shit!” He shouts.

Without skipping a beat she calls out from the bathroom with a piece of floss hanging out of her mouth,

“You're stressed out even when you can find shit, so I don't see how this is significant.”

It was in this moment when silence falls upon the house, a silence so stilling not even a cricket wanted to make noise. A fevered rage of boiling blood and blood vessels on the verge of bursting all on account of a bag and a box. Perhaps the ludicrous behavior will be forgotten by him and the offense made will soon disappear in the days events. There the thought lingers in the mind of this woman, such intensity, such passion never have a bag and a box felt such importance. A simple blue gift bag all of sudden felt like it was a high dollar piece of luggage that carried an assortment of jewels. The simple black cardboard box basked in it's glory of love and importance feeling as if it a bullet proof , impenetrable portable safe which contained the secret recipe to coke a cola. How special these inanimate objects must have felt that day if they were actually capable of feelings. It makes one wander how truly lonely that packet of mayo in your fridge really is.