Open the box

Open the box
On the broad wooden table st a box. It was wrapped loosely but prettily in gauzy paper and a heap of ribbons. Attached to the top ribbon, echoing the teal tone of the majority of ribbons, a small card was attached. In florid script in red magic marker, it said “don't open me.”
Whoever had laid this box here obviously knew her nature. Don't open me, indeed! It was like asking her not to think about the tiny pink elephant under her chair. It wasn't going to happen unless she left the building entirely and even then, she would likely make one circuit around the block in her rusty old car and find herself sneaking back into this room to investigate the box.
The wrap, though loose, was complicated. It tangled around her fingers, wrapping itself around her palms, it seemed to be sticking like the tentacles of a baby octopus. The box itself didn't seem to want to be unwrapped. She tore a little harder at the ribbons, puncturing a few in her quest to get to the box itself. The gauzy paper was an illusion as well. It was tough, like cellophane but a small tear did not start a larger one. She sat in the chair at the head of the table, pulling the box and its tangle of wrappings into her lap to get better purchase on the damnable thing. Finally, with a snarling rip, the paper came loose from whatever bound it to the box. She couldn't see any tape, no staples, nothing that should have confounded her as much as it had. When she flung the paper and ribbons away, the floated to the ground as any such material should do.
The box itself was ornate, a complex arrangement of metal and wood. The surface was smooth, it reminded her of a topographical map, of the complex surface of a brain mapped on the inside of a skull, and of the night sky all in one. She knew she could stare at the outside of that box for years and never figure out exactly what it was meant to represent. Maybe that's what its maker's intentions had been.
On the side of the box, a small leather strap was held in place by two plates of metal. She ran her hands over the plates, feeling the cool, rough texture of the hand hammered iron. The mechanism, if there was one, was hidden. Both plates looked identical, the leather strap giving no indication of the direction it should be pulled. It was a box built to hold secrets and keep them well.
At this moment, she really didn't know whether she really intended to open the box or not. Oh, when she'd sat here, pulling exuberantly at the wrapping, she'd had every intention. Now, however, the box seemed more like a legend than a present. She honestly didn't know if she wanted to find whatever would be inside. Pandora's box, wrapped in teal ribbon and tagged with magic marker.
She set the box back on the table, turning it gingerly this way with one finger, then that, watching the play of light on the shining wood and gleaming metal. In the direct light, the metal seemed to be layered- hammered so transparently thin that she could see down into the overlay. It had the effect of a nearly perfect mirror. She could see her eyes peering back at her from the box. They held a confused fear.
Sitting back, she pulled the box one more time into her lap. It fit perfectly, the four edges following the bare outline of her legs. The surface left cold and smooth on her legs, like a pane of glass. She wished it was glass, so she could see what was inside before making the decision to open it.
She spent a few minutes running her palms over the wood and metal, feeling the slight variations in temperature and texture as her fingers moved from metal to glass and back to metal. Everything on the box was so smooth except those catch plates. Their texture brought her fingers back to them again and again.
Finally, she decided to set her apprehensions aside. She was still fearful. Anything in such a beautiful box had to be either very dangerous to her or very meaningful to whomever had left it. Either way, she didn't really need the drama, but she found she intended to open it anyway. Her fingers returned to the hammered iron, and as if the intention itself were enough to open the box where her skills were not, one of the plates slid aside, falling with a solid thunk against the wooden side of the box. At the sound, she pulled her hand back, fully expecting something to spring from the box and take it off. The lid stayed closed, however, and she let her hand creep forward again, find the tiny edge where the box and the top met, and give the nudge that finally opened the box.
Inside was nothing dangerous, and really, nothing that could mean anything to the giver. It was a ring, one she hadn't seen in ages. It was bronze, copper and sterling silver, the colors woven and hammered till each became part of the other. She'd found the ring in a junk sale at a nearby church in college her freshman year. She'd worn it until the day a cat in her clinic scratched her hand too deeply and the scratch got infected. Her hand had swollen, nearly double its size and she'd been forced to remove her jewelry. She thought the ring, one of her favorites despite its simple origin, was still buried somewhere in her jewelry box. Obviously not, as here it was, rattling inside this huge, ornate present. There was nothing else in the box, just that simple ring, no note, nothing to fear, and nothing to tell her where the damn thing had come from.
Reaching to pick it up, she realized her hands were trembling. They shook as they pulled the little tricolored band out and shoved the beautiful box back up on the table. She stood, pulling back from the table and the box, the ring tucked securely in her palm. It felt warm, as warm or warmer than her palm. It also felt so natural, despite the strange origins, that she unconsciously slipped it onto the ring finger of her left hand as she turned away from the box.
And woke up, The ring hanging heavy on her hand.