The radiator broke two hours before Evan was summoned into our boss’s office. With haste, I forced my dull argyle tie into his quivering hands, took his wrinkled one, and told him all would be well.
Mrs. Henderson stood next to the boss’s desk– an elegant octogenarian from the eighth floor who claimed Evan had been stealing her packages. A tall peacock feather pierced her jet black hair.
The fact is, we’re replaceable. We’re the personal mailmen for those who don’t really need us.
It was my birthday. The office could not contain our boss’s screams of unwavering rage. Evan handed me my tie as he fled. His name tag was promptly removed from his mailbox. The dust in my own remained undisturbed.
When sorting the mail a week later, I noticed a generous pile of fresh packages. Most were addressed to the Peacock herself. Their exteriors were of vibrant colors, reminding me of those gourmet cakes you see on television.
I was selfish and impulsive, not to mention ignoring the clear likelihood of severe punishment. I took a package. I snuck it down to the basement where I carefully cut the packaging tape. I peered inside.
A dead cat lay there. It had curled into a ball, as though simply cold. Eyes tightly shut.
I sat in silence. When my watch beeped, I ascended to the mailroom. I gently resealed the parcel and quietly placed it in her mailbox.
