I stole my neighbor’s luxury hatbox.

Repair men were in her apartment replacing the floor. They left the door open and when I walked past I saw the hatbox resting on an ugly sofa.

I walked past again. And again. The repair men were probably taking a break. I ran in and snatched the hatbox. After reaching my apartment, I took in my new acquisition. I didn’t know why I decided to steal her hatbox. Perhaps I wanted to sell it. Perhaps I just wanted something nice.

I inhaled and opened it, not really expecting to find anything inside. (Who keeps a hat in a hatbox?)

There was a note inside–something scribbled on the back of a receipt in an oval, feminine hand. It was the beginning of a love letter to me. “Dear K,” it began. She had written nice things about me, but entirely in past tense as though I were dead: “You were this, you were that.”

I had the sudden urge to return the hatbox. Then I turned her love letter over and inspected the receipt.

Rope, tape, saw, shovel, bleach, trash bags.

I decided not to return the hatbox after all. I locked the door.