Tuck finished his soup and salad one Sunday afternoon.

His wife left to play tennis at a posh club downtown. She was late getting back.

He went to the mailbox at halftime. There were sexy girls in bikinis on TV. He liked to look at the girls. But he really wanted to check the mail.

He opened the mailbox and saw a small package. “They don’t deliver mail on Sundays,” he mused. There was no return address. Just “Fragile” in scrawled handwriting. He tore the brown wrap. A small blue box. A bead of sweat bubbled on his brow. He took the package inside.

With shaking fingers, he lifted the lid. And peeked.

When he saw the eye he told himself, “That’s Madge’s eye.” He closed the lid.

Then he thought, “This is really sick.” Then he thought, “Well, where’s the other one?” and “I hope it’s okay.” Then he thought, “Is this some kind of joke?” He opened the lid and checked the eye closely. Yes. Good. It still had the contact. Paid good money for those.

Then he thought, “First thing tomorrow, I’m gonna look into this.”

Tuck went upstairs. He popped a beer and turned up the TV. To drown the sirens. He set the box down next to the remote.

More commercials with beer and girls. He liked those. Especially at halftime with a buzz coming on.

You Might Also Enjoy


Najwan Darwish

Translated by Kareem James Abu-Zeid   I know I’ve got nothing left—
all my food was eaten by thieves
. . .


Spine Surgery

Fred Marchant

               cord in the tunnel
                             from mind to the. . .


Mass. Ave.

Sarah Green

I was fifteen. My father and I stood
at the basement threshold, shouting
at each other, maybe the only time.


Further Reading

Heads Up: We recently updated our privacy policy to clarify how and why we collect personal data. By using our site, you acknowledge that you have read and understand this policy.