Mademoiselle.
He pauses, adjusts his spectacles.
The post office has been open since ten o’clock this morning.
Another pause. He looks down at his watch, causing the specs to slip to the end of his nose. It occurs to me that when he raises his head he will be eyeing me over the frames. I brace myself.
It is not at five minutes to closing that one attempts to send a large parcel.
I could explain that this is the second time I have been to his post office today. I want to whine about the lies on the website and the uninformed lady at the first post office. I consider sobbing that if he doesn’t take my things I will be bootless and bookless in Nice come September.
Instead, I say, very quietly
There are three.
Eyebrows are raised. Nostrils flare. Lips tighten.
He flings a fistful of forms across the counter and spits
Sit. Fill. Return. Fast.
I fill the forms to natural light because someone turns of the fluorescents. By the time I return it is down to me, him and the security agent turning people away at the door.
He rings up the total. I breathe and unsheathe my visa.
More Pinter pausing. The nostrils eventually communicate what words do not.
I consider protesting the ridiculously of the
Instead, I say, very quietly
Well, nothing.
It has been a harrowing afternoon and, frankly, I’m spent.
He sends me to the ATM outside. I am behind a couple who takes ages because, judging by the cloud of shopping bags, they no longer have any money to take out.
He must be worried I’ve dumped my boxes on him and run away laughing because he comes out of the post office to look for me. Which is convenient, because I need him to get past the equally anxious to leave security agent.
We exchange money and receipts. He stands, pulls up his pants and sighs
Bon week-end.
I want to tell him that I didn’t do it on purpose. I can’t decide whether to apologize. I almost hug him.
Instead, I say, very, very quietly (remember I am spent)
Merci.
5 comments:
I admire the subtlety and corresponding open-mindedness with which you convey the fact that, until the very end of this story, Walter had his pants around his ankles. :-)
aaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
jajajajaj
me encanta tu "mise en page" de la realidad. hay que llevarla al plano ficcional para hacer catarsis. te quiero. da una señal para ver si llegaste bien!
Oh my darling. That was painful to read. It is a relief to know you're now home, probably sitting in the Lisbon sun. Love you xoxo
Teeeeeehehehehehe.
Oh post office workers. My most harrowing encounter was the one who hadn't heard of Canada and wanted to send my package to either Australia or Zimbabwe. One or the other only.
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