Treasure Hunt

Often, when I visit people I know, I look in their medicine cabinet. I don’t go through it; I just open it and check out its contents, see how it’s organized. I’ve done this since I was little. Back then, I’d rummage through every cabinet in my parents’ house in search of treasures, unearthing birthday and Christmas gifts, looking for dark chocolate or spare change to buy myself jellies. The girl who owns the apartment that we’re renting took almost all her things with her before she moved out. Except in the kitchen, where she stashed a few things in the lower cabinet.

Ever since we moved in, I’ve been itching to find out what she left in there. One day, when I was home alone, I emptied out the cabinet—one item at a time. She hadn’t left anything really interesting—lots of crockery, crafting supplies, tools. In the toolbox, I found a matchbox, and something inside of it rattled. It was full of wafer-thin paper packages. I picked one out of the box and unfolded it. A stainless steel razor blade. I’d never handled anything like that before; it was featherlike, with an hourglass shape carved out of the middle.

I replaced everything else in the cabinet, carefully putting it all back in its place. Or nearly everything. I took the razor blade that I’d opened and hid it in the bathroom. I haven’t cut myself since we moved in, but I think it’s good to have the blade on hand, just in case.