"Morning Miss Liddle! Morning Mister Hart! I've got a letter for you!"
"Really?" The old man - I mean, who else would be at home at this time of day - gets up and waddles to the gate. "Thank you very much." He takes his letter, then returns to the sun lounger on his porch.
I wave Mister Hart goodbye then start back on my rounds, my mailbag slapping against my side. Neither snow nor rain nor dead of night. You know how it goes, right? And in my case, not even the strange looks I get from some of the colony's inhabitants will stay this courier from his round. I stop to raise my hat.
"Morning, Missus Battersby," I say cheerily, but the old biddy just glares at me over the top of her spectacles before raising her nose in the air and hurrying away. Her reaction doesn't faze me. In all the time I've spent trudging the streets, delivering the mail, I've had worseI check the bundle of envelopes in my hand. My next stop is going to be Mulligan's coffee shop. I trot across the road and open the door, setting off the bell dangling from the lintel. "Mister Mulligan?"
Mulligan grins at me from behind the cash register. "Hello there. Is this a social call or do you have some mail for me?"
"Two letters." I hand over the envelopes. "And what looks like a tax demand from the city."
"Well, it can't always be good news." Mister Mulligan tucks the envelopes into the frame of the big mirror behind the counter. "Do you have time for a coffee?"
I check my watch. "Why not? My usual please."
"Coming up." Mulligan busies himself at the coffee machine, dancing back from the scalding steam that the machine slurps and hisses from every joint.
"Missus Battersby is in a mood today," I say by way of small talk. "She blanked me on the way here."
Mulligan puts a cup brimful of coffee on the marble countertop. "She has been complaining about you to the committee again."
"Really?" I take a sip from the cup. "I thought that the big thing about this place was how tolerant you are all supposed to be."
"It is. But Missus Battersby is very old-school. She has this thing about maintaining standards of decorum." Mulligan looks me up and down, and shakes his head. "And dress."
"Hey!" I grab the fabric of my shirt and tug at it. "You know I'd love to, but I'd be written up if word got back to my supervisor that I was ever out of uniform."
Mulligan laughs. Then he turns back to his coffee machine, his naked buttocks framed between the straps of his barista's apron.
