Butterfly Box - origin

It’s no larger than the palm of my hand. The detail of the carving mesmerizes me. I’d been drawn to the cobolt blue of these tiny butterfly wings sitting on the dusty metal shelf in amongst all sorts of tattered curtains and ancient blenders and random nick-nackery. But the box is unmarred. And the detail...
“What could I use it for?” I think, snickering slightly at my pack ratting tendencies. (I was born in the year of the rat, after all.) My eyes roam the crowd of the cluttered thrift store. I can’t see any of my friends. Perhaps they’ve abandoned me. Or, more likely, they’re busy looking at clothes. I know I should be looking at clothes, especially pants since mine all look like they’ve been thrown onto a trigger-happy minefield, but I hate shopping - especially for clothes. It sucks my soul.
Forgetting I still have the box in my hand, I resolutely wade through the store and begin the impossible rummage through pants that will never fit me but I desperately need.

“What’s that?” Al asks, pulling back the pile of old man style pants to reveal the box resting in my palm.
The ka-ching! of the cashregister startles me as we move with the line. I flinch and snicker. “It’s this box I found. I ment to put it back but...”
“But,” Al grins coquettishly, her lake water eyes fluttering, “you want to get it for me.”
Flipping it discreetly in my hand, I cunningly peak at the price tag and see that it’s only a buck. “Sure sweetcakes. I’m getting it for you.” Al giggles as the line moves again, spilling us forward.