Was it part of her dream, or has someone actually just kicked her door?
Naomi raised her sleepy head – she could not quite open her eyes – and listened. Yes, definitely, someone was kicking her door. Hard.
"Who the hell are you" she murmured "and what the hell are you doing here at…" she glanced with some difficulty to her watch "…quarter to eleven?"
She threw off the sheets and climbed out of her bed. The kicking continued.
"Give it a rest!" she tried to yell, but her voice was hoarse. She cleared her throat. "I am coming!" she managed to call.
A muffled answer came from the other side of her apartment door, saying something like package. Naomi did not understand. She was expecting no packages at all.
She put on her robes and combed her hair with ten fingers. Although it was late, she hardly slept enough. She got to her bed well not long before dawn, after participating on Carrie's birthday party.
Maybe that fortune-teller was right after all, she thought and went to open the door. (In the meantime the kicking paused). Maybe this is not the ordinary postman, not an ordinary package, but a nice, handsome guy handing over the key to the gate of her new life, before which, according to the wisewoman of yesterday, she was standing.
Is there caffeine in there?
She lifted the lid of the peephole. Not bad, not bad at all. A tall, honey-blond man was standing there, seemingly as old as her, wearing jeans, a white t-shirt and stubbles. The package he was holding seemed heavy, for he was supporting it with both hands, and kept the corner of a she of paper between his lips – hence the muffled voice.
"Can I help you?" Naomi offered through the door. The man spat the sheet on top of the package.
"Are you Naomi Novik?" His voice, interpretable now, was somewhat impatient.
"Yes" she replied without even thinking.
"Then open up, please. This thing is damn heavy. Books in there, you know. The things you open and read."
Naomi felt more and more awake by the second.
"Thank you. Will you please tell me who sent me books in the first place?"
"Oh, no one. I am no postman. The district archives will be closed down at the end of the month, and I am their runner for the project. These documents here are said to be yours. Take them, please, and let me sort out the others before sunset."
"I have nothing in the archives."
"Then it is your family. Or I just do not know, but the name and the address is the same. Will you take them or shall I bring them back for incineration?"
Naomi bit her lip. Incineration? Even if it is a mistake, what a barbaric deed this is, to incinerate archived documents…?
"Just put it down there, I will get to it later."
"No will do. These are unique copies, you must sign the delivery papers first."
"Oh, goody" Naomi cracked open the door; the security chain-lock was still engaged, should the runner try anything. "Let me sign it, then. "
"There it is." The man put out his chin, and true enough, on the supposed stack of books wrapped in thick brown paper, beside the spat-out delivery sheet there was a pen as well.
"Oh, thanks" she muttered. The runner was not only resourceful, but had also disturbing, chocolate-brown eyes.
She hastily scribbled her name to the letter of delivery, and took the package. It was the size of an average paper shopping bag, but it was really heavy. All she could do was not to drop it, and when she put it safely down on her tiled floor and looked up to say good bye to the runner he was nowhere to be seen.
Naomi closed and locked her door, gave the package a good shove with her foot, then decided that she will best put it under the laptop desk until she has the time and spirit to open it – if ever.
She yawned. Very well – this all can yet turn out to be a dream of a heavy morning after. But if this is a dream, will drinking dream coffee end it?
She yawned again and decided to take the risk.