I remember the flowers, mainly. Whatever else was in the van blurs back to the junction end of Bedford Road. Its back doors had gaped open, wound-like. The man standing inside seemed hell-bent on his mission, too: cardboard box after cardboard box, wheeling out the van, through the air, smashing off the road, the pavement, crumpling into themselves. The ghost of a shape.
An old lady sustained injuries from one of the boxes, if I remember the article right. Full of cracked poetry. Another boy had his leg broken from a flying shipment of video-game controllers.
But I got flowers. The man in the van shouted something I didn’t understand, some Doric slur, and then there it was, his package lobbed in my direction, breaking open mid-wheel. Lavender, hyacinths, bluebells – it was all mush, right in front of my feet. The effuse of traffic and McDonalds miasma smothered their fragrance.
Of course I still think about it. Especially when I receive a delivery. There they sit, those full parcels, heavy on the floor of my apartment, as I stare down, clutching the boxcutter, breathing shallow. Like my lungs were bags once plump with air to soften the cargo. Like they were punctured, ready to shrivel.