The first gift arrived in the afternoon on March 14th.
When the building concierge called? I was still in my pajamas.
“Ms. Catrel, it’s Tony from downstairs. Sorry to call but you got a special delivery, and the guy here won’t let me sign for it.”
“Oh.... Are you sure it’s for me?”
“Yep. It says ‘Annie Catrel’ on the front.”
“Um…hmm.” I frowned, not sure what to do. I didn’t know anyone, not really. I had no friends in real life. Though I had some online friends and colleagues with whom I was friendly as The Socialmedialite, none of them knew who I really was or how to contact me, let alone where I lived.
“Do you want me to escort him to your apartment? Or do you want to come down here?”
“I guess I’ll come down.”
“Okay. Sorry to bother you.”
“No problem, Tony. ’Bye.”
I stared at the phone for a few seconds after clicking off and then rushed to dress in jeans, flip-flops, and a T-shirt, pulling my hair into a ponytail.
Downstairs I found Tony glaring unhappily at a courier who was holding a medium-sized box. I noted the man—really, a teenager by the looks of him—was wearing a T-shirt with a logo that read Tea and Sympathy over the left breast.
“Annie Catrel?” he asked.
“Yes.” I glanced at young man then at Tony.
“Here, this is for you.” The courier held out the box and placed it in my reluctant grip.
“Do I need to sign something?”
“No. I just had to make sure I gave it to you directly.” He gave me a boyish smile that told me that he’d enjoyed ruffling Tony’s feathers and then turned on his heel and walked out before I could question him further.
I gave Tony a compassionate look then escaped back up to my apartment. Once safely inside, I considered the package only briefly before cutting it open. Inside I found a glass-topped tea box filled with delicate little hand-filled and -labeled bags of tea. The box was teak or some other beautiful, rich wood. The teas ranged from Earl Grey to a special Tea and Sympathy blend.
I marveled at the lovely little pouches, smelling each. Soon I found I was smiling with wonder. I searched the box for some note as to who had sent it and then turned my attention back to the package it came in. At the bottom of the cardboard box was a card. It read:
Dear Ms. Catrel,
I hope this makes you hot.
Warmest regards, Ronan Fitzpatrick
My mouth fell open at the cheeky, albeit very succinct, note. I couldn’t help it. I laughed.
He was…he was so…he was such an unabashed flirt! And yet the tea was such a thoughtful gift. The fact that it was so perfect for me, something I would have wanted but never would have purchased for myself, gave me such a forceful buzz of delight.
Despite myself and my carefully honed instincts to never want or expect anything from anyone, I promptly went to the kitchen and put the kettle on for tea.
I also wanted to say thank you, but reaching out to Ronan as Annie Catrel could only lead to trouble. Therefore, as I waited for the pot to boil, I shot him a quick email from The Socialmedialite.
March 14
2:14 p.m.
Dear Ronan,
I see that you’re on Twitter now. I followed you; be sure to follow me back so we can interact.
Also, I came across an article on online engagement. It’s entitled “Social Media Campaigns for the Beginner.” The link is in the attached document. I hope this helps.
-The Socialmedialite
It wasn’t a thank you, per se, but it was something small I could do to help him. In the karmic scheme of things, it would have to suffice. I hit “send” just as I heard the kettle whistle.
The tea didn’t make me hot. But it did warm me up, and it did make me smile.
***
March 15
12:32 a.m.
SML,
Thanks for the article. It was enlightening, but this still feels like a monumental waste of time. I’m sitting on my arse in front of a computer, staring at twatter, instead of actually doing something.
-R
March 15
12:45 a.m.
Ronan,
It’s Twitter, not “twatter.”
Twatter sounds like a very specialized vibrating tool of some sort. ;-)
-SML
March 15
12:52 a.m.
Twitter, twatter, fudder, motherfucker, I don’t care what it’s called.
I could be interacting with real people instead of this pretend interacting. How do you do this all the time? I would lose my mind.
-Ronan
March 15
7:18 a.m.
Dear Ronan,
I honestly enjoy it. I love interacting with people online. I feel like it’s a safe haven where people are free to be who they really are.
-SML
March 15
8:15 a.m.
Explain, please.
Why can’t you be who you really are at a doughnut shop or in the park? Why do you have to be online? I’m myself everywhere I go. It’s not limited to a pretend world created by nerdy perverts masturbating in their parents’ basements. You know the Internet was invented by porn-mongers, right?
This shite makes no sense.
***
The second gift arrived mid-afternoon on March 15. This time, Tony didn’t call. He just showed up at my door with the gift in tow. Rather, I should say gifts in tow.
“There’s a lot more downstairs.” Tony gave me a confounded look then surveyed the inside of my apartment. “I don’t think they’re going to fit.”
I glanced between him and the five men behind him, all with armfuls of flowers. Daisies, roses, lilies, sunflowers, irises—every kind of commercially available stem was represented. I gaped at the scene then turned my stunned expression back to Tony.
“What-who-where—”
“There’s a note.” He clumsily pulled a card from his pants pocket, dropping a magnificent arrangement of peonies and hydrangeas.
I picked up the felled flowers then took the note, ripping it open and scanning the contents. Of course, it was from Ronan. It read:
Dearest Annie,
Roses are red.
Violets are blue.
I’m using my hand
But I’m thinking of you.
- Ronan
P.S. Just to clarify, I’m using my hand to write this note…get your mind out of the gutter.
I choked and then choked a startled laugh. Then I choked again as the hallway full of flowers came back into focus.
Ronan Fitzpatrick was completely crazy.
“What do you want us to do?” Tony shifted uneasily, his black eyebrows pulling together in a plain display of anxiety.
“Um….” I struggled, glancing from left to right as I searched my mind. It was no good. Everywhere I looked, I saw flowers. I squeezed my eyes shut so I could think. “Just—just give me a minute….”
Tony was right. Just the armfuls of flowers in the hall would never fit in my cozy little apartment. Plus, it would be such a waste, having a jungle of flowers to myself. Really, they needed to be shared….
“Wait! I have an idea.” I opened my eyes and gripped Tony’s forearm. “Do you think there is any way we could have these sent to Memorial Sloan-Kettering? Distributed to the patients?”
He nodded thoughtfully, slowly at first but then with more conviction. “Yeah, yeah. I can make that happen.”
“Let me know how much it costs. I’ll be happy to reimburse you.”
He gave me a relieved smile. “Thanks, Ms. Catrel. I’ll let you know.” Then he turned back to his compatriots. “Okay, guys, back down stairs. We’re sending these to Sloan-Kettering. Come on.”
I watched them march back to the elevator. It wasn’t until the doors closed behind them that I realized I was still clutching the peonies and hydrangeas to my chest.
***
March 15
10:55 p.m.
Dear Ronan,
LOL! @ “porn-mongers.”
You are very funny.
In a way, your last email is correct, but in another more accurate way, you are wrong.
The online environment is unique, and that’s a very good thing.
Rather than be judged by what they look like or their ability to speak in front of a crowd, people are judged by the merit of their ideas and words.
-SML
March 16
12:02 p.m.