1
Special Delivery
“Delivery for Gigi Jordan.”
It was a good thing I’d gotten up off my ass to find that the source of my ringing doorbell wasn’t my usual mailman.
The regular guy was a sweet, almost elderly gentleman whom, if I’d ever seen him doing something other than delivering mail, I would never have believed he could walk multiple miles a day, up and down hills, and outrun the occasional vicious neighborhood dog.
But the mailman didn’t come until three-ish in the afternoon, and it wasn’t even noon yet. How did I know the time, since I’d spent the past forty-eight hours in three locations—the couch, the bathroom, and my cupboard, where I’d consumed most of the economy box of Pop-Tarts I’d bought a week ago?
It was amazing what a combination of a pity party and too much free time could do for you. And thanks to both of those, I had a new way to measure the hour of the day. My new soap opera, to which I’d gotten completely addicted in one short week, didn’t start till twelve p.m. sharp. And it wasn’t on yet.
The fisheye camera outside my apartment revealed a woman in a delivery company uniform. The purple and black shirt got me unlocking my door because she was holding a cute little box. I couldn’t remember what I’d ordered, but hopefully it was something good.
Maybe snacks.
“Morning, ma’am. Are you Gigi Jordan?” she asked.
“Yes. Yes I am.”
She thrust the box in my direction, which was about the size of something small-ish from Amazon. Except this box didn’t say Amazon.
“Sign, please,” she said, after she also thrust one of those little signing machine things under my nose.
I took her stylus and scribbled some version of my name.
“What is this?” I mumbled, mostly to myself.
I didn’t normally have to sign for my packages. In fact, they were usually just left at my door.
Must be something important.
A moment later, the delivery woman took a quick photo of me without warning or permission.
That’s when the pieces started falling into place.
Shit.
I needed Pop-Tarts.
Just before she left, she popped a bland smile. “You’ve been served. Have a nice day.”
Fuck me.
Just like in the movies. Make the shit as dramatic as you can, just to twist the knife a little harder. Spill a little more blood. Cause a little more trauma.
So fun!
With trembling fingers, I opened the box. The box that was major overkill. Really, the contents could have been delivered in a plain envelope, but I got the dodge. Still, it was ridiculous.
It wasn’t like I was in denial, and while the delivery wasn’t unexpected, seeing it in black and white, clearly spelling out what was to soon be my new marital status, was a kick in the gut. Actually, it was more like being crushed by a slow-moving steamroller, except that I was, unfortunately, still alive.
In The Superior Court Of Williams County
PETITION FOR DIVORCE
IN THE MATTER OF