a basket of muffins [elegant]

Muffins.
Muffins.
Muffins?
Who baked them?
Better question: Why the hell are the muffins on his front porch? Even better question: Does he like muffins? Dallas has never had one, has he? This is too many questions about muffins to ponder so early in the morning.

He stumbles down the three little steps that mark where the house ends and the pathway to the road starts, and stares at the pretty basket of muffins that have now claimed a spot in his front yard. Tucked away inside the soft fluff of the baked goods is a petite, neatly-written card, with his name scrawled neatly on the envelope that encloses it. The envelope itself is a muted white, with the light, warm smell of the blueberries of the muffins imprinted into the fiber. He struggles with the card as he pulls it out, and it reads, somewhat messily:

Dear Dallas,
I find you somewhat attractive. Please take these muffins as a gift from me; I hope you enjoy them.

Love, Secret Admirer

He stares at the words a moment, trying to piece them together. After a moment he snickers and grins, knowing that this is some type of a joke. But, why would somebody go to such extremes to bake him muffins? Muffins, let alone any baked good, are a luxury here. Somebody must really adore him.

Quickly tossing the note into the trashbin, he places the muffins on the counter inside the house. Oddly enough, it seems somebody has stocked up on food recently in the house. The kitchen is covered in its usual grime and dirt, but it seems that a somewhat larger amount of light is able to filter through the never-washed window, and the floors and surfaces seem cleaner. Even the stove doesn't look so bad. Dallas gazes around the kitchen, in a mixture of shock and awe. It's not much, but for his home, this is a moment worth jotting down in the record books. Ever since his two older brothers moved out, his mother and father have neglected the housecleaning. And there was no way Dallas was going to do it.

Taking a muffin from the zenith of the pile and walking out the door, he half expects somebody to be standing right there, awkwardly and somewhat creepily staring at him, watching his every move and reaction toward the gift. But no person stands at the end of his drive, and no person is awkwardly standing there watching him.

Hearing a sudden noise come somewhere from his left, he quickly spins to accommodate his useless and deaf left ear with his advanced right one. Trees rustle in the light winter wind, and leaves create tiny tornadoes of debris, but there is nothing out of the ordinary here.