Only warning.
“DON’T OPEN THE TRUNK.” My friend’s voice was deadpan, but his grip on the car keys was tight. He handed them over, giving me a look that promised swift and painful obliteration if I failed. Now driving away, my brain immediately betrayed me. What was he hiding? Contraband? A body? Radioactive waste? The curiosity was like a physical itch.
Finally, unable to take the psychological torture any longer, I pulled over onto a dusty dirt road. I held my breath, popped the latch, and braced for trauma. Instead I found pure romance. The trunk was a treasure trove: a gorgeous ring glimmering in a velvet box, piles of sentimental gifts, and mountains of gorumet donuts in every size, flavor, and color imaginable.
It was a beautiful anniversary surprise for his wife. And then, disaster struck. The moment the lid lifted, a giant cluster of helium balloons broke free. They shot into the sky like coloful misslies. I lunged, slapped the air, and did a frantic, undignified dance trying to grab the strings, but it was no use. They sailed into the clouds, completely mocking me.
Cold dread washed over me. My friend is built like an actual silverback gorilla. If he found out i ruined his anniversary, he wouldn’t just be mad, he was going to physically launch me directly into the sun. “What am I gonna do?.. WHAT AM I GONNA DO!?” Interal sirens blared in my mind. I slammed the trunk, peeled out, and went on a manic, high-stakes hunt for replacements.
I hit every bakery, grocery store, and sketchy gas station in a twenty-mile radius. But fate hated me today. It was a total, apocalyptic balloon blackout. Every single store was completely sold out. Everywhere! The drive back to his house, absolute panic set it. My options were clear: I could either face him, or I could change my identity, buy a new toothbrush, and legally move to a tiny village in a different country.
Palm sweat was literally flooding the steering wheel, making the car hard to steer. I finally parked in his driveway, my heart hammering against my ribs. I stepped out, my legs shaking like jelly, and handed him the keys. He looked at me squinting, “Did you open the trunk?” My throat went entirely dry, I opened my mouth to confess and accept my fate of being thrown into orbit.
But right at that exact millisecond, a man wearing a beret strolled right past us in the sidewalk, aggressively squeezing a deafning tune out of a loud accordion. It was a miracle. Blessed by the gods of chaotic timing, I chose survival. I didn’t say a word.
I just spun on my heels and sprinted down the street at Olympic-level speeds. My friend stood frozen in pure confusion, watching me text-book sprint away into the distance screaming back at the top of my lungs “HAPPY ANNIVERSARY!!!” The end.
