Cheryl Cole had one pressing issue on her mind when she stepped into the street on a chilly September day. The bus, whose driver who could at that moment be seen in a panic with his foot slammed to the floor and other arm grasping for the emergency break, while one would assume its placement at the top of her priorities, did not make Ms. Cole’s list. Until it came to an abrupt halt and after an irritated blast from the horn, did she acknowledge the existence of the bus in her worldview. Even then, she found its entrance into her train of thought an unpleasant intrusion in her designs and most pressing need to reach the post office before it closed at five.
The package, though small, was not one she wanted to be caught with or even to have in her presence for much time. It belonged to her ex and, as she reasoned, it had been a deliberate attack on her sanity to leave it with her. Spite was what the asshole was full of. She’d told her friends over drinks on numerous occasions and then directly to the prick’s face during the final fight, where she served him his notice of eviction from her house and life. The only blessing in his misguided packing was that he left the Tupperware, which now came in handy in returning his spiteful gift.
While it wouldn’t be the whole thing, the rest she’d buried out behind the wood pile. The head would surely inform him of what he had done wrong and get her message across. He might have been an asshole she reasoned, but he wasn’t completely daft. She wouldn’t be saddled with his burned. Their separation was supposed to be her liberation, not a sentence to stay at home and care for the cat. She never asked for the cat, never mentioned wanting to own a cat, or even spoke of a predilection towards cats. Yet, he showed up one day and announced he had gotten her one, which he would later take to calling Mr. Meowers after, in her apathy, she couldn’t be bothered to name the creature.
For all she cared, he could put Mr. Meowers’s head on a stick and mount it as an effigy on his god damn mantle. It would serve as a reminder of what a horrid ass he was. Something he could certainly do with. But, in order for the prick to get the message, she needed to get to the post office, and then he’d have to wait five to seven days, as there would be no way she’d pay for anything but standard shipping. She wasn’t Amazon and she would be eternally shocked if he managed to spend more than twenty dollars on her.