Unititled
by K.J. Hays


They fucked until the floor felt messy.
It was about two o'clock.
The postman who loved his job was dropping off their mail.
He had to leave it at their front door because the box was full.
He wondered if there was anything better than getting something in the
mail.

After some speculations the lone postman drew myriad conclusions.
A lot of the mail he brought to the woman's address was porn.
He imagined that there must be some reason why she was not taking in
her magazines anymore.

This made the mailman lonely. He tried to meet people, but his jobs had
made him staid and dull. Women do not do staid and dull. Especially when
your job is not as much fun as pizza delivery can be. This postman knew
that. Still he tried. He did not last more than two dates. He could not get
filth. Filth would remind of the woman he delivered to that did not open her
filth.

He was boxed into his life, just as the destination of the mail he delivered
was predetermined.

That thought wore him sleepy and mad. He carried it with him on all of his
routes. It got heavier.

Soon he knew he would be doing his route. It was too much to bear. The
pain of knowing is fatal.

He felt the pain of knowing where he was headed, except he was in control
now, unlike his mail.

This made him feel a little better. He reached into the box of letters in his
truck. He looked in it.

He took out two letters. One was marked return to sender. The other was
a post card of some sexy place that was intended to make the recipient
jealous. Then he drove his truck past the woman's house and up a
winding hill. When he reached the top, he breathed in quickly, ignored the
macabre view of the smoky choking city, and floored it. The truck tumbled
down the hill. The mail got bloody. By the time the truck had run out of hill
to roll down the mailman had run out of guts to spill. The mail got sticky. All
of the letters were going to need another stamp now. They were not going
to get anywhere. Insufficient postage affects where a package can go.
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