This or That

Cynthia walks home on a cold, crisp evening. One arm wraps around her torso to keep herself warm while the other holds tight to a tiny, white cardboard box. Home feels miles away, though just around the corner. She enters a building and walks over to the mailbox that reads 216. Tiny keys clatter from her pocket as she unlocks the compartment. Just on the other side of the glass door, she spots a homeless man outside. A shopping cart and a sleeping bag are the only things that accompany him on the chilly, gloomy night. Her eyes pierce through as she grabs a pile of envelopes and closes the mailbox. For some reason, this man smiles from cheek to cheek as the wind blows his patch of hair in another direction.

Cynthia enters her petite apartment. She drops her keys onto the stained kitchen counter and tosses her new mail into a bowl with old, opened envelopes. She shimmies out of her black coat, and places the white box inside the fridge. She unzips each of her scratched-up boots as her feet slip out. Her ripped tights are the only thing in between her skin and the ground.

She begins shuffling through the new mail. Bank statements, hotel brochures, bills. The light in her kitchen begins to spasm. "Dang it." She turns off the light, grabs a chair from her dining table, and slides it over to the kitchen area. She hops onto the chair. A small left twist of the light bulb does. She switches the light on and its jerking mannerisms stop. Perfect.

As she puts the chair back, in the corner of her eye, she sees a wrapped item of some sort. A sense of confusion unveils on her face as that gift was not there earlier. Right? She slowly approaches it, examines it, then caresses it with her fingertips. No note. No name. She rips it open. It is a plain, black book with a beautiful black pen tied to its side. Brand new. Even smells like it too. She opens to the first page, however, it has already been written in. The rest of the pages are blank. The first page reads: Circle one. Would you rather have a scrumptious red velvet cake or a decadent, warm apple pie? Cynthia's eyes scrunch in puzzlement. "Huh?" She detaches the pen and inspects that too. She circles the second option. Her doorbell rings, causing her to shoot up out of her seat and head for the front door. Her eyes peek through the peephole. Nothing. No one. She opens the door to a brown box. She picks it up, feeling her fingers swelter. Her head turns both ways to look down the hall. Silence.

She places the box onto the coffee table and opens it. The smell of sweet apples and cinnamon escape and lingers into the living room. Her nose gets closer to take another whiff. Cynthia is in awe. She speeds over to the book and opens to the second page. There are words suddenly there now. It reads: Would you rather have a shiny, gold watch or a whole library of books? She circles. Nothing seems different. Her feet take her down the hall. Nothing. She makes her way back to the living room. Stacks and stacks of books fill the room. Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Lewis, Angelou. Gasp.

Page 3. Would you rather have a 2-carat diamond necklace or a delightfully knitted, warm wool-scarf? She circles and there appears a warm scarf around her neck. The most beautiful pattern intertwined.

Page 4. Would you rather have... your friends and family with you right now... or twenty-thousand dollars? A pause. "Woah," she exclaims. She taps the pen against the wooden surface. Her legs push her body back into the couch to ponder. She slides forward. She circles. The doorbell rings again. Cynthia heads for the door. Her fingers grasp the doorknob and as she takes a breathing halt. The doorknob turns...

On the floor is a large burlap bag.

She sets the bag beside her on the couch and opens it. Stacks and stacks of money. She takes two of these stacks in her hand. She's never had this much money in the grasp of her palms... or in her presence at all. The money presses against her breast in a sweet, sweet embrace. She stops to contemplate.

Cynthia is in the elevator. Level 2. Ground floor. She holds a large backpack on her left shoulder. A loud ding comes from above as the elevator doors open.

The frosting air loiters the city streets with the attendance of car traffic. Cynthia crosses the street and approaches the homeless man. She places the backpack beside him. He opens his eyes. They guide him from Cynthia to the backpack. "Keep smiling," she says as she disappears amongst the car waiting behind one another. He unzips the backpack. Inside includes three books, a slice of apple pie in a Tupperware, a knitted wool-scarf, and stacks and stacks of cash. The homeless man looks up with his mouth wide open. Unbelievable.

Cynthia sits in her living room. Faint honking noises are the only sounds that fill her compact home. Complete silence. She swings open the fridge yet again to grab the white box. She places it on the coffee table in her living room. Her bottom sinks into her worn-out couch. She reaches inside the box, revealing a white-frosted, chocolate cupcake. Beside the box is an already-opened set of 6 birthday candles, yet only two remain. She grabs one, places it in the center of the cupcake, and sparks a lighter.

"...Happy Birthday to me, Happy Birthday to me, Happy Birthday to me, Happy Birthday....to me," she sings. A warm gust of air squeezes through her two lips and extinguishes the flame. Her index finger brushes against the frosting so she can get a taste of the food coloring and sugar. Sweet. Yet somehow bitter.

A knock. Cynthia closes the cupcake box and heads over to the front door. Her eye looks through the peephole. "Oh my goodness." She quickly unlocks the door and swings it wide open. Her mother, sister, and brother stand in the hall. "Surprise!" they all shout. Her mother opens her arms wide and gives Cynthia the biggest hug. Her mother whispers in her ear: "Happy Birthday sweetheart." Her sister and brother join. The cold on their clothes melt within each second of their embrace.

Her mother has a folded piece of paper in her hand. She gives it to Cynthia. "This was at your door when we got here." Her family begin to take their coats off as they head to the living room. Cynthia opens the paper. It reads: Keep smiling. Cynthia throws her coat on. "I'll be right back." She heads downstairs and exits the building to where the homeless man was. It's empty.