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surprisingly

The next day at work, Carter asked me what was in my package. I told him that I didn't know, so he sat down on the edge of my desk and tried to pressure me into opening it in front of him. 

"I bet it's that floppy hat from the winter show," he said, pressing his ear to the cardboard, as though it would speak to him and tell him the answer to his life's problems. ("Well, for starters, Carter, you should really stop whoring around and start doing your job.")

"The floppy hat?" I deadpanned, looking down casually at the rolls that formed on my stomach when I hunched over my desk. I sat up straighter. The rolls didn't go away. Of course, I thought, the floppy hat, because nothing else from the Burberry show could fit me. 

"Or maybe it's a sample of the make up! Lily From Features got one of those," Carter said, lifting the box and inspecting its exterior. "No return address, huh?"

I shook my head. "No."

"Open it," Carter said.

"No," I said.

"Please," Carter said. "I have a lunch meeting in like five minutes, and I want to see what it is." (Lunch meeting in Carter Speak means, "booty call.")

I sighed and took the box from his hands. "Come back after lunch, and I'll tell you."

Carter poked out his bottom lip at me, but said nothing more before leaving me to my own devices. I spent another twenty minutes inspecting the box, shaking it gently, and turning it around in my fingers before I even went it search of scissors to cut it open.

For a fraction of a minute, I was sure that it was a bomb. What else could it be? Nobody really likes me enough to send me a present through work. I usually get gift cards on gift-giving holidays, and this was a lot of packaging to contain a few Starbucks cards and a potential membership card for a gym from Diamond. So that wasn't it. It had to be a bomb.

I accepted my fate and ripped open the box. Where was the foul smell? The blue gas that would knock me out while the assassins came in to finish the job? Or, better yet, where was the explosion, just big enough to kill me, but to leave my fancy Unique Magazine office intact?

Okay, so it wasn't a bomb. There were layers of lavender tissue paper with a vaguely Burberry-esque scent. I could feel my heart racing, because, oh God it was actually an authentic Burberry floppy hat, as predicted. And then-- oh, that wasn't a hat. I set the box down on the desk and lifted the soft fabric out of the box. Softer than cotton, lighter than linen. A floral print sundress, nearly identical to the one I'd worn yesterday. With a gentle shake of the dress came a little envelope, which fluttered to the ground like a leaf in autumn.

I draped the dress over the back of my chair very carefully, because I didn't want to wrinkle such a pretty dress. I picked up the envelope equally as carefully, because this could be the part that explodes in my face, or the proof that this dress isn't mine at all. There wasn't any glue, so I slipped the note out, handwritten on lined paper, with doodles in the margins of a steaming mug of coffee, and me (or at least a prettier version of someone with my hairstyle) running into Zayn Malik in a hallway. My eyes seemed to fast forward to the end of the note, which said, "best wishes, Zayn" in blocky letters. 

"No way," I whispered, bouncing a bit on my toes. Zayn had actually remembered what my dress looked like well enough to get me the Burberry equivalent and send it to my office. That was ridiculous and somewhat creepy, but also extremely adorable.

Dear Penny From Editing,

I know the dress isn't a direct match, but it's the closest I could get! Hope this makes up for the coffee, and I hope it's the right size! If not, bring it upstairs tomorrow, and we can swap it out for a different one!