The Rosewood Box


I remember when this place used to be popular.  But now this pub has been driven into the ground by poor business decisions, poor reviews, and terrible service.  Desperation sticks to this place like my forearms stick to the bar.  I figured I could use a beer or two before taking care of unpleasant business.  Might as well be in the unpleasant carcass of this place.  The small rosewood box still sinks heavy in my pocket.  As if it's contents were made of lead rather than gold.

I walk to the jewelry store down the street.  They know me here, but there's no need for greetings.  I silently walk up to the woman across from the counter and place the rosewood box down in front of her.  They've been in business so long I'm sure she's seen the look on my face before from a 1000 or more men.

Her: Get rid of it?
Me: Get rid of it.

She bags the contents like its evedence at a crime scene.  I guess metaphorically the situation represents the death of something so the description isn't too far off.

To my surprise she slides the tiny box back.  At first I was going to tell her to just throw it away, but something made me reach for it anyway.  For months I feared this box.  If I wasn't hiding it I was checking it every five minutes to make sure it was still on my person.  Waiting for just the right moment to give it away.

Now?  I treated it like it was full of ghosts, and I dare not open it again for fear of letting them out.  The box had to be exercised properly.  I live in a compact urban environment so burning it, while cathartic would be problematic.  But I do live near one of the largest rivers in the state.

Somewhere at the bottom of the riverbed a fish looks confusingly at a small piece of rosewood that doesn't belong there.


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