Delivery (solo)

The cookies had long since cooled to palatable temperatures. They would have been cold enough to eat the night before, but she hadn’t wanted to traipse around the city in the dark when she had a perfectly good place to stay. To wander with cookies (or any food, carry-on or desirable of any kind) at night was foolish, having been a streetie for a few years, she knew the temptation a box of warm, wafting cookies held.

Besides, after wishing her- she was fairly sure she remembered correctly through the mental fog clouding that incident- a well-timed bus to the face (or back, or anywhere fatal really) he could wait for his delicious cookies. Not that he knew he was waiting, but still.

She fiddled with the simple white card held against the box by a rubber band as she stood in the elevator and opened it to check her spelling once again, slipping her reading glasses onto her nose.

‘To the bigot-Rupert and Flipsy-dog,
Not quite whiskey, but the best I could do with what I had. Hope you like them.
Verdi-not-hit-by-a-bus-grass
P.S. Cookies for bigot, jerky for dog. Chocolate might make her sick, and by the look of the jerky it may do the same to him.
V’

Snapping the rubber band against the box in a gentle rhythm she wriggled the small bag of jerky more snugly into the depression in the base of the box. Her glasses tucked safely back in their superman case she exited the lift and located the bigot’s door. After a second’s pause to listen- was he out walking with Flipsy?- she lay the box, card and jerky pile outside, knocked once and left. This time she took the stairs, far more healthy.