Boxes

Empty wine boxes littered the floor. It was a sign of the times.

It dismayed him. Where were the boxes of beer and boxes of coffee drinks?

Inspiration seized them. He would create them. And he’d sell them in his own establishment. He’d call it Boxes. It would look like a boxcar on the outside. The chairs and tables would resemble boxes.

People would come in and order boxes of food and drink. He imagined the orders. “Give me a box of onion rings, with a box of soda pop.” His burgers would be square, so they’d look like boxes, and be named for boxes. “Give me a Boxtop with a box of IPA.” His place would be decorated with takes on boxes – like a pair of sixes on dice. “Boxcars!” Boxing Day would be celebrated with big discounts.

Excitement growing, he turned to rush out. His feet tangled with several empty wine boxes. Tripping, he slammed his head into the door frame. Passed out, he bled out on the cold floor before anyone found him.

The young paramedic who responded to the call said, “He’s done. Let’s box him.”

It was crude, but he would have approved.

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