Tuesday, June 17, 2008

The Little Red Box

The little red box was tacky—heart-shaped and candy red and coated in the bristly quasi-softness of imitation velvet. It was too tacky to be the box for a ring, the ring. And even if the thought of such contents motivated its acquisition, I had no pretensions of this box serving that purpose. But it did serve a purpose. Like trying on a new pair of shoes before purchase, getting used to the feel of them on your feet, accounting for their unfamiliarity and stiffness yet projecting into the possibility of their inconspicuousness, their naturalness, I would finger the little red box alone in my room trying on the idea of its use. Holding it under a lamp in the palm of my hand, I would open it with my thumb, straining slightly against the stiff springs of its hinge and imagine an inhabitant half buried in the pursed lips of the cushion within. It would not be a diamond; that had been specified. Yet if that were the case, what would it be—jade, sapphire, amber, pearl? Would it be faceted—round, princess, oval, marquis—or rough? Would it be set traditionally, or something as unorthodox as the stone, and in what material—in gold, platinum, hemp? Into the white underside of the lid, I asked these questions of the little red box. And into the fabric of its silent response I would weave the daydream of the scene of exchange—the context, the question. Before the response, however, I would close the lid with a snap, stopping short of uncertainty.

I played this game with myself for months. And each time I was always sure to hide the box afterwards where only I could reach or would care to look—that is until the day I moved out of my apartment and the subject of my contemplation helped me pack. Carelessly I left it out, meaning to take it with me like everything else. We entered my room, her on my heels, and in the few seconds it took for me to notice my oversight and snatch the little red box from the surface of my dresser—perhaps had I removed it more casually it may have gone unnoticed—the tranquility of ignorance with regard to my secret that previously characterized her expression was replaced by the fire of curiosity.

When I refused to show her what I was hiding, she unsuccessfully tried to wrestle it from my pocket. Over the next three weeks the secret contents of the little red box became the preferred currency for the most trivial of exchanges—recipes of well-made dinners, the responsibility of washing the dishes, the privilege of choosing the rented movie—each of which I opted to do without. After each proposal I changed the hiding place, assuming her curiosity, if tested, would outweigh my caution.

But finally, one warm summer night, she asked me more tenderly than ever before to tell her what was in the little red box. It occurred to me that I could show her its interior while still keeping my secret. The contents that I guarded were simply a series of intentions, which like the air, though tangible is invisible.

So I reached over her shoulder to extract the box from it most recent hiding place and offered it to her to open. My sudden acquiescence and the proximity of the hiding place made her suspicious, and she said as much, simultaneously suggesting that the pursuit of a secret is more enjoyable than its discovery; but she opened the box nonetheless. Obviously disappointed by its emptiness, but perhaps relieved that her persistence hadn’t ruined a romantic moment, she accused me of having removed the contents and orchestrating this scene to derail her curiosity.

Am I so transparent?

No comments: