On my way home when bakery calls me.
We have your package.
I didn't order a cake?
No, your package ma'am. It was delivered here.
Did I drop something? My mind does a quick inventory of things that could have possibly escaped my grasp as I salivated in the window of the buns place sashayed past the bakery nonchalantly.
Am coming up blank.
Your package ma'am. Did you order something on-line?
As a matter fact yes I did.
Can you come pick it up?
Why would my package be delivered to you?
I don't know ma'am, it wasn't my shift. Boss just asked me to call. Can you come pick it up?
Next morning crunch my matza as enthusiastically as I can, knowing that I am going to have to stop at bakery to pick up my package yet really can't eat a thing.
Wait in line between guy in plaid shirt buying pink Hello Kitty mochi and three girls in mini skirts and high boots giggling over their tray of Cha Siu Bao pork buns and bubble tea.
Try not to breathe too deeply because just being in the presence of all these pastries is a serious calorie risk.
Serving person goes in the back, and retrieves my package.
Puts it on the counter.
I just don't understand why this package was delivered to you?
I don't know ma'am, it wasn't my shift.
I reach out my arms to take it.
Not so fast.
Before you take the package, ma'am we need to see a picture ID.
You're kidding.
You want me to show ID for my package that you accepted even though it has neither your name or your address on it?
Well, we wouldn't want it to end up in the wrong hands.
