The prompt over at Sunday Scribblings is “beauty.”
The package comes to the house via a guy in a brown shirt and short brown pants, driving a big brick of a truck the color of dog shit.
Mother jumps from her knitting when the man in dung hits the porch, waving at us to stay where we are as she takes care of the delivery. Father’s right eyebrow cocks into a quizzical arch over the book he’s reading.
Mother skips into the dining room with a box the size of a footstool. She goes to the kitchen for a knife and carefully slices the packing tape and bends back the cardboard flaps.
Inside, there’s a heavy Styrofoam container. She carefully pries off the lid and it’s accompanied by a hiss and a cloud of frost.
“What you got there, Hon?” father asks.
“Beauty,” she says, nearly breathless, as one hand sifts through the box, the other holds an itemized packing list.
Father and I join her around the table and peer into the box. It’s stuffed with sealed plastic packages, lightly coated lightly with ice crystals from a layer of dry ice in the lid.
Sculpted ears, an upturned nose, full, pouty lips, layers upon layers of wrinkle-free, tanned skin, some of it touched by a smattering of freckles.
“Hon, it’s what’s inside that counts,” father says, poking the end of his pipe through the packs of flesh and parts. “This stuff can all go back to the factory.”
His eyes go wide and he pauses. He puts the pipe bit in his mouth and digs out a package from near the bottom of the box.
It’s a pair of the most spectacular breasts I’ve ever seen, large, pert and perky, tanned with perfectly round, pointy nipples the color of pale rose petals.
“These are spectacular,” he says, nearly breathless. “It would be a shame not to at least try them on.”