Monotonies of Winters
The eight o'clock door thuds are tight and measured. Wrapped in a tea towel I open the door. It is not the mailman.
"Excuse me, let me get undressed." I glide into the bedroom, pull the sheet off my bed, and drape it over my shoulders. "How can I help you?"
"I am very sorry, Miss," the man taps his fresh-shaven chin. Pieces of toilet paper are pasted to three bleeding cuts -- three maroon pistols, white petals fluffed up by his fast breathing. "I hear you are expecting the mailman."
"I will leave then."
I lock the door behind him and stare at the top of his head through the peep hole. He has rusty wild hair with snowflakes in it.
Susanna and Phyllis come over for tea. They perch on the sofa and chirp, and loop the air with their pinkies.
"We heard you were expecting the mailman today."
"Yes. At around eight o'clock."
"What's in your tea?" They wipe their foreheads with tea towels.
"I added wild berries, some red and some blue."
The gray hardened snow banks have grown since last week. They press into me as I squeeze between them. Someone has painted ice patches with beet juice. The door to the post office is locked.