Delivered by the Universe

When a friend posts the following message on Facebook, what is one to do?

Sooo, I got an Amazon package last night. But I didn’t order anything.
It is absolutly addressed to me.
Inside?
A package of tube socks and a large bag of 100 condoms.
My first thought was, maybe someone is playing a joke on me?
Second thought, maybe this belongs to my ex husband…
Or the universe is trying to tell me something?? But what?!

As you may have guessed, my response was to write a short story!

Delivered by the Universe

Marnie found the package on her doorstep, unmarked except for her name and address, printed with unnerving precision.

Inside: a pack of plain white tube socks and a bag of 100 condoms.

She stood in the doorway, the cold seeping through her slippers, waiting for a flicker of understanding. The street was still. A distant car hummed, then faded. She carried the box inside and placed it on the counter with the care reserved for something fragile.

Her first thought: a mistake. Packages went astray all the time. But the label was clear.

Her second thought: Ted. Her ex wasn’t the prank type, but their run-in at the grocery store last week—a stilted conversation over frozen peas—had left her irritated. He’d looked better than she remembered, and the fact had stuck in her throat like a fishbone.

Her third thought came unbidden, quieter: What if this is a sign?

The socks were soft and unassuming in their clear wrapping, almost serene. The condoms sat bold and unapologetic, their neon wrappers clamoring for attention. Together, they felt like a riddle: stability and risk. Comfort and possibility.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” she muttered. The box didn’t answer.

Her phone buzzed with a message from Leah:
“Universe sends signs. Socks = stability. Condoms = action. What’s it telling you?”

Marnie smirked. “To lower my standards and buy better socks,” she typed back. Her cynical laughter fell flat.

The package stayed on the counter for days. She didn’t wear the socks. She didn’t touch the condoms. But she couldn’t throw them away either. They were waiting, daring her to figure them out.

On Friday, she stopped for coffee at a small café near her office. The man ahead of her fumbled his drink, spilling half of it onto the counter.

“Shoot,” he muttered, grabbing at napkins.

Marnie hesitated. Then she reached for some too. Their hands brushed, and he looked up, smiling sheepishly.

“Thanks,” he said. His voice was warm, softer than she’d expected.

“No problem.”

It was nothing—a moment. But the way his eyes crinkled stayed with her as she walked home.

Back in her kitchen, the box was waiting. She opened the drawer where she’d hidden it and pulled out the socks. They were soft in her hands, steady. She slipped them on, letting the fabric warm her feet.

The condoms stayed in the drawer, their wrappers bright and humming with possibilities she wasn’t quite ready to touch. Not yet.

Her phone buzzed. A message from Elliot—his name had stayed with her.

She didn’t open it right away. Instead, she sat with the warmth of the socks grounding her and the unopened message waiting, quiet and full of promise.

Stability and adventure, she thought. Maybe the universe knew me better than I realized.