The Mailboxes

“Pinkus,” the beardy dude behind the counter bellows and shoves a paper sack of Greek takeout onto the stainless steel counter. He readjusts his backwards his backwards baseball cap and retreats back to the kitchen.

I slip my phone into my back pocket and grab the bag. Then I gently fall back into the glass door, pushing it open with my shoulder blades, and peek inside the bag to check to see if everything’s there. My chin scrunches into my neck so far that I’m pretty sure I have at least 4 chins. Looks like it’s all here.

When I glance up, there are a couple of young women standing on the sidewalk, looking distinctively salty. A lovng stream of apologies dribble out of my mouth as I do an awkward soft shoe out the door and out of their way.

Then I pretend not to hear their commentary as the door slowly swings shut, nudge my bottle cap glasses further up the bridge of my nose, and start the four-block walk back to my apartment.

It’s stupid hot out, even at 5 at night, but it’s good to stretch my legs after a long day of sitting. No one ever tells you that the majority of your academic life is spent sitting. Sitting in class. Sitting in lab. Sitting on the bus. Ultimately too much sitting. Besides, the Victorian-lined streets provide a pretty nice backdrop for an evening food run. The leaves on the ancient neighborhood trees almost look like stained glass in the bright summer sun and the houses rise up proudly and almost paternally behind them.

To my left, I catch a glimpse of a biker zipping past in her reflective tracksuit. Then across the street is a young couple walking their small dog, its tongue lolling happily and easily over its massive under bite. I glance down and hop around this cat who decided to sun herself in the middle of the sidewalk. Her head is weirdly small for her body, like it stopped growing long before the rest of her ever did. She slowly opens her eyes and fixes me with a look of both curiosity and irritation, then closes her eyes once more and lays her tiny little head back down on the warm ground.

My street comes up next, and one of my distant neighbors is still out gardening to the sound of what seems to be Russian new age music. I round the corner and see my place at the end of the block, a barn red Victorian with bright white trim. The four mailboxes allotted to the four separate apartments in the house hang heavily on the white picket fence.

My apartment is on the right side of the house on the ground floor, the one with the heavy grey drapes drawn over the large windows. The other apartment on the ground floor is currently occupied by an aggressively sexual couple, which is super fun when it’s late at night and all I want to do is sleep and I still haven’t picked up those earplugs I’ve been meaning to purchase for the past year. Above the Kama Sutra Kids is the White Lady with Dreads who really likes to play Bonobo loudly and smoke that sweet, sweet sticky on the back patio (and consequently directly through my bedroom window). The tenant across from WLD is the newest addition to the house. I don’t know much about her other than her last name and the fact that I’m pretty sure she’s the most beautiful human I have ever seen. It’s whatever. It’s cool.

And just then I see her jogging down the patio steps.

I pick up my pace a little bit.

She’s almost to the mailboxes.

I lengthen my stride as much as I can muster before breaking into an all-out run.

She opens up her salmon pink box.

My toe catches on the cracked sidewalk and Greek food is everywhere.

I stare at the boxes on the ground, some of them eeking out sauce, others completely split open by the impact, and groan. And then I keep groaning for a little while longer until I’ve effectively compartmentalized my embarrassment and disappointment and am able to gather it up and shove it back in the bag.

When I look back up, she’s come and gone. On my way past the mailboxes, I read her name, scribbled on a piece of tape, “Nazari.”