The Mailboxes

I’m at my desk. And I’ve been looking at pictures of brains for like an hour. And I never wanna look at another brain ever again.

I lean back heavily in my desk chair and blow out a long stream of horse lips. Wiping my spitty chin with the back of my hand, I straighten up once more and stare wistfully out the window. It’s bright out there, probably pretty warm out. I wouldn’t know because I haven’t left the house today. Or gotten dressed really. I peer down at my skinny legs popping out of my underwear that look so pale under my glass desktop they almost seem like they’re underwater. I glance back up and see some movement coming from the backyard. I squat/stand a little bit to get a better look and I see Nazari locking up her bike on the back porch.

Never have I moved so quickly in my life.

I slam my laptop shut with a force I might regret later, grab the nearest pair of pants, and do a little potato sack hop shimmy on my way out the front door. I stumble down the stairs while I struggle with my zipper/button combo.

I yank the main door open, pause, push back my absurdly floppy head of hair and jog out the door.

And then I see her at her mailbox, her dark hair in a nubby little pony tail at the base of her neck, her smooth brown shoulders exposed and slightly damp from the heat of the day.

I approach my own mailbox, open it, and glance over at her. I try to get my mouth to smile. “Hi.”

She turns slightly towards me, her arms full of books. “Mmph.” She nods emphatically and gives me a drippy smile around the ripe peach in her mouth. Then she carefully closes her mailbox with her elbow and leaves.

I slump over a little with a sigh. I grab the single piece of mail in my box.

Pizza coupon.

I shut the mailbox.