Paizlee questioned Daxten’s intentions on a daily basis. I just don’t know what he’s thinking – I mean what he’s REALLY thinking, she thought. While the college classmates had only known each other a few months, they now found their lives intertwined. They found that working together in the produce section of their town’s local supermarket allowed for some of their deepest conversations over everything from cabbage to carrots. In spite of their developing discourse that extended well beyond the market’s hours, they had never been to each other’s homes and they never shared any intimate thoughts about current or past relationships.

While there was never any talk of anything resembling spiritual nosegays or permanence, the topic of conversation ranged from debating the value of bizarre food oddities like the summertime shack in Narragansett that cooks clam cakes in beef fat to proposing and adding new exotic journeys to their never-ending travel bucket list like their shared passion to travel to Mongolia’s forbidden zone to find Genghis Khan’s tomb. On one hand he would indeed be a great travel companion but even when his lips are moving and sharing so much, there’s something much deeper he’s not sharing with me. 

She was also completely puzzled watching Daxten pile paper packaging and cardboard cartons in the cabin and cargo bed of his rusted-up, old, white with red pinstriped 1975 International 150 pickup truck at the end of every shift. She pondered why he needed to procure all of these materials but she was too shy to pry, and far too befuddled as to inquire about his peculiar hoarding habits. She observed that “Dax” (as she nicknamed him) didn’t discriminate about size, shape, color, or texture of the boxes. He also didn’t care much for the prior content – it just didn’t matter to Dax if the carton previously held garlic or grapes. Don’t the stains or remnants in the boxes have an odor, she imagined.

It wasn’t until Paizlee spied on Dax doodling in their Abnormal Psychology class did she gain a valuable insight into one of his private obsessions. Is that a room he is sketching? Is it a cube? Surely, it resembles one of the hundreds of cartons he has taken out of the store. But wait, is it a box within a box? I am so confused! As Paizlee got lost in her thoughts, Dax tilted his head towards her as if he was eavesdropping into her mind. He then pulled his hands under his desktop almost to offer her a clearer view of his sketches. She pretended not to be interested, flicked her wrists outward, and faked a pronounced yawn behind her guarded smile.
With class literally drawing to close, Paizlee gathered her backpack and books and darted for the rear door to the classroom hoping to avoid any awkwardness with Dax.

It was too late.

Dax stopped her midway to the door and slyly asked, “So, did you like what you saw?”

Okay, think something clever and let’s avoid discussing this right now. “Sure, well, uh…I thought the graph Professor shared on biological causal factors and also the table listing all the imbalances of neurotransmitters and hormones made me feel like I had all of those – but that’s every Abnormal Psych class here,” Paizlee replied.

“No, not that, you know, my sketch you were fixated on,” said Dax.

“Ohhh, were you doodling something? I thought you were just taking notes.”
That was a close one! 

“C’mon, be honest, you saw my room.”

“Room? Is that what that was? I thought it was box in a box or a cube or something.”
Oops. What just happened? I did just admitted to seeing his sketches. Ugh, nice move. 

She shrugged her shoulders while looking at Dax quizzically.

“You need to see it, it is nearly done,” blurted Dax, “I want you to come to my house to see it. How about after class – right before we have to go to work?” “Please? I really want to share this with you.”

I couldn’t believe what he was saying. This was the same guy who had been sending me mixed signals since we met. I was pretty sure we were firmly in the friend zone. Was this his big move? Not very sophisticated at all.  “Sounds like a plan – see you later, Dax.”

When I got to the corner of Maple Avenue and made the left turn down his one-way street I could feel my heart beating out of the Incubus logo emblazoned across the t-shirt on my chest. His house was about three-quarters of the way down the street. It was a yellow, two-story home with what appeared to be a full attic. I wondered for a moment which was his bedroom and then refocused my thoughts on where I should park my car. Dax’s truck was neatly tucked in the unusually formed driveway next to his father’s work van. They had apparently cut the curb extra wide on the street in front of what was clearly another lot his family owned. The only available spot on the street was blocking him in – a risk I was willing to take just to see him and his “big reveal” as soon as possible.

I didn’t realize while I was performing it but Dax was standing at his half-screen front door observing and laughing at my “expert” parallel parking maneuvers. He met me on the concrete paver path to his door while shaking his head and continuing to laugh heartily at my expense.

Okay, laugh it up. 

Dax grabbed Paizlee’s hand and they darted up the creaky wooden stairs to second floor apartment that he shared with his parents. As he flung open the door, he spun Paizlee in a 180 degree U-turn and headed up another flight of stairs. Paizlee wasn’t expecting Dax to grab her hand in the first place, let alone make these parkour moves around staircases and doors.

When they arrived up to the top of the second flight of stairs in what appeared to be a full-size, stand-up attic, it was lit only by the thin outline of late-afternoon sunlight that was peeking through the room-darkening shade on the far end of the room.

“Okay, close your eyes”

Close my eyes? It is dark in here as it is.
“Ok, my eyes are closed.”

“Don’t peek!”

At what? The dark? Geez, Dax.
“Got it. Ok…Dax.”

“Okay, open them.”

As if by cosmic coincidence, I could hear the faint sound of U2’s “Tryin’ to Throw Your Arms Around the World” as Dax placed his hand now on my shoulder. I opened my eyes and saw the cardboard-patchwork monstrosity that took up more than half of the attic room. Amidst the interwoven colors and logos of every hijacked used blueberry box to quite literally every detergent brand and napkin packaging and tissue box with yellow and blue in its color scheme, I could make out a domed-like structure resembling Vincent Van Gogh’s “Starry Night”.

“Just wait for what comes next, Paizlee!”

I was already in awe of his creativity and willingness to share this beautiful piece of artwork.

Dax disappeared for a moment. I laughed to myself as I heard him flip a switch after stumbling over what sounded like a large, rigid, cardboard box. 

I was quite literally stunned. 

Piercing through strategically-placed holes within the surrounding image were mini holiday lights that illuminated the scene like a planetarium. Dax’s cardboard Van Gogh creation came magically to life.

As I stood in the middle of the room turning around and around to appreciate every angle and every little detail, Dax grabbed both of my hands, leaned into me and whispered in my right ear, “I…I created all of this for you. I recall one of the first days I saw you, you had a white shirt with the Starry Night image on it. I wanted to build this to show you how much I…I, well, really like you.”

I guess I finally found out what he was thinking all along – it was me. I was his muse and he was thinking only of me.