a mystery to me

Once upon a time (ok, maybe two years ago), I arrived home to find a mysterious package waiting for me. It was a plain manila mailing envelope, worn and abused, and addressed to me. The return address was located in Florida, and the name was completely unfamiliar. I contemplated from where/ whom this package had truly originated, and what could be inside. Should I open it?

I decided to take a look. Inside was a book entitled Mysterious Stranger. Wait, what??? It was a worn, used book of short stories written by Mark Twain. There was no inscription or note inside. I was starting to get a little freaked out! Sitting down, I began to think of who would have sent me such a book, but absolutely nothing was coming to me.

So, of course, I called my father. He listened to me and asked me to calm myself. He told me I was probably worried about nothing, though he was somewhat concerned himself. We discussed whether calling the police would even be plausible, and we decided against it. He asked me to give him the return address so he could look into it. I thought we were probably being a bit silly, but scenes from stalker movies creeped into my subconscious and made me slightly edgy.

That night, I asked my three roommates if they had any idea where the book could have come from, but they had no ideas, either. Finally, a friend happened to call and I told him the whole story. Turns out, it was him!!! He reminded me that we had discussed short stories weeks earlier and he had, on a whim, ordered the book from Amazon and had it shipped to me. I replied that while I truly appreciated his kind thought...

...maybe next time he could include a note with a book entitled Mysterious Stranger!!!!