Campfires and Toasted Marshmallows

The Letter Carrier

Envelopes of all sizes and colours cascade down the mounds created by the overhead conveyors as they drop the weekend load onto empty sorting tables.

As the last envelop falls he notices there's not too much for a Monday; she'll be baking and he'll be able to linger.

He drives to the route and parks. He slings the heavy satchel over his shoulder and walks with a bounce in his step.

He arrives at Heller Street then walks up the drive of a house that's like all the rest on the block and makes a delivery. He walks across the grass towards the next house. At the edge of the property, he slips, unnoticed, behind a large bush then carefully makes his way towards the back.

The smell of cookies and the sound of Elvis Presley singing Hound Dog are in the air. A woman's voice begins to sing along with the radio. She's right by the window.

He waits until she moves deeper into the room. A minute later he stands on the concrete block he put there a year ago. Hidden by the hydrangea, he peeks into the kitchen.

Her back is turned and she wears only her apron. Her hair is up. He feels aroused as he follows the line of her back all the way down.

Something's different. Did she gain weight? His attention goes to her head. Ah, she's coloured her hair. She turns.

He falls backwards off the block. The woman wears a mask and her apron is splattered with blood. He rushes to the front and continues his route; shaken to his core.

He can't tell anyone. He wonders if she saw him.

The next day he delivers to his route as though nothing happened. He keeps his head down and doesn't look at anyone. Maybe nobody will notice him.

At the house he walks past layers of activity. Officers and people wearing paper booties swarm in and out of the house; cruisers and forensic vans are parked all around; yellow tape sections the area off; reporters and their crews film from the street. On the outside of all that, a crowd of human vultures waits for scraps.

A reporter stops him and asks questions. He lies. An officer does the same; again he lies. He leaves the area as quickly as possible.

Days pass. He goes to the bar to drink  -  again.

The big screen TV shows the house and appeals for information.

He downs his drink then turns to the bartender. He stops and stares.

She's new. Her silk dress drapes over her body leaving nothing to the imagination. She's exotic and beautiful.

As if pulled by a black hole he moves towards her.

"Buy you a drink."

"You asking or telling?"

"Which would get the yes?"

She smells like peaches and honey. She's like a polished diamond that belongs in a jeweler's case. Look but don't touch. He thinks, a little smash and grab might be in order.

She drops her head and lets her hair fall over her face.

Through the dark veil she says, "Telling."

He motions to the bartender.

He puts a foot onto the lower rail and casually leans against the bar trying to look cool. With his best Humphrey Bogart impression he says, "What brings a girl like you to a place like this?"

She downs what's left of her drink then swivels to face him.

"You do."

She seems familiar. He tries to remember but the last few days are a fog.

"Have we met?"

"Not formally," she says. "But I've seen you around."

"And do you like what you see?"

The bartender places down the first of many drinks.

Later at his home he drops onto the couch and says, "Tequila's in the kitchen."

She goes to find it, humming Heartbreak Hotel as she goes.

He's too drunk to pay attention. He tries to pull off his shoes and falls forward onto the floor. Behind him comes the sound of a knife being sharpened.

copyright 2018 All rights reserved A.P. Cairns