You may think, dear reader that I am referring to a movie classic.
But in fact I am going to tell you about whom I like to think of as 'my mailman'. He's forty-fifty something. His greying hair is short, his dress style never changes, he greets me nearly daily in the same peppy slightly smokey voice and every time he leaves with a wink. He's not ultimately lovable but I've grown strangely fond of him. In much the same way one grows fond of goldfish or kitchenmold (doesn't this sound harsh), but he's one part of my life as a working girl I would not like to trade.
I know he's not MY mailman, seeing that I have to share him with at least every other secretary in the building-whom I will scorching with flaming rays from my eyes and crush into despair with my sheer unreachable superiority, should they wish to claim the uniformed messenger themselves- still I hope to find out in time when is 'postman-day' so that I may surprise him with a(n) (origami) flower.
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