What came in my post today was despair.
The doorbell rang a cheerful tune, the complete opposite of how I was feeling. The postman must have waited a long time as I dragged myself to the cheery wood front door, and crossed the yard to the copper gate because he looked completely bored. He was even examining the doodles my dad and I had drawn on the letterbox.
“Sign here,” he said, not looking up from his observations. He held out a pen and paper. I took the blue ball point pen from him and slowly etched my name on the slip of paper. Then I passed the items back to him. I must have shocked him when our fingers almost touched because he looked up, his black eyes boring into mine.
Immediately I wished I had bothered to comb my hair, or had changed out of my black long sleeved dress when I came home. I felt conscious of his unwavering gaze, so I looked down. The dress was wrinkled; it wasn’t the right material to sleep in. My auburn hair was frizzy and tangled, evidence that I’ve been trying to find the right position so that I could fall asleep.
The call came later that afternoon. The post office; the United States Postal Service. They have a legal department, and their legal department was investigating me! They claimed I had sexually harrassed one of their mail bringers. They claimed I greeted him, my hair in wanton disarray, my black dress loose and revealing. He told them I touched his hand, and then -- when I looked down -- I stared at his crotch.
Me! Can you believe it? An innocent spinster, living in the care of her aging father in this simple, lonely cottage. Of course I was mortified.
What? Yes . . . Yes, I do want the milk. Yes, I know you have other deliveries to make. Yes, I suppose I could take my hand off your balls so you can be on your way . . .
Opening: Georgia.....Continuation: anon.