Claude ordered a new luxury suitcase to use on her Paris trip. It arrived this afternoon, in its box, and when I arrive home, she invites me to sit around it with her.

"It's not what I ordered," she says.

"You haven't even opened it yet."

"Right, but does it take a genius to realize that it's obviously not what I ordered?"

I sigh. "Maybe you ordered the wrong thing."

"Wyn, I have the receipt in my hands, and I'm telling you that this is not what I ordered." The paper was crinkled, presumably from her balling it up out of frustration. Such was her habit.

"So maybe they got it mixed up, then?" I offer.

"And how many times have you heard of them 'mixing up' mail? Hm, Wyn?"

"Just once, Claude."

"Just once, Wyn. This is not one of those times."

"Well, it has to be one of those times, because nothing else makes sense."

"Unless they lied." She squints her eyes.

"Here we go."

"I'm telling you, Wyn! All this 'oh, oh, order online!' nonsense is shrinking people's britches! And for what, hm?"

"Because they're against you?"

"Exactly! I didn't even use my stage name, and they're still against me!"

This is probably the time I should fill you in, dear readers, on precisely who my roommate and friend is—but I can't. For one, everyone would then be able to figure out who I am, and I can't have that happening. The only reason I can be as candidly vulnerable as I am here is because of anonymity. Two, Claude's career is atypical to most people, and it's not doing too well right now. Three, Claude's so dear to me that if anyone dare threaten her, I'll break their face. So, you see? This is why I can't.

I exhale. "I'm opening it. What progress comes of just sitting around it?" I move fat, fluffy Max to the floor and break the tape with my keys. This suitcase is definitely not what Claude ordered. "Who'd you buy from again?"

She hands me the receipt. I read over the details. I'm done—officially done. "Claude," I say.

"Yes, Wyn?" Her voice is so soft that I want it in perfume; her eyes look hopeful.

"This is exactly what you ordered." Now she looks pissed. I hold up my hand for pause and read the receipt. "'Paris Dream Grrl Doll Suitcase'. How did you not see 'doll'?"

She snatches it out of my hand.

The suitcase was expensive, and she did not go with a new one to Paris. The suitcase also could not be returned, so she donated it to a charity auction.