The Mailman

Twilight slowly landed on the ground like a parachute whose silk was made of evening shadows and streams of the darkening air.

Soon the mailman will appear at the door, he thought, mentally sinking in the fog behind the clock on the wall. If the fog percolates through the clock all that would remain would be the ticking… The ticking of misty space…

He touched the wall. His fingertips drowned in the twilight. He drew them back and gazed at the wall for some time.

The steps were heard from a distance. Someone was walking along the snow.

It’s a mailman, he thought, recognizing the steps.

The door shook as if someone knocked on it.

The fog retreated.

He made a deep breath.

Time to open the door...

He slightly pushed the wooden rectangle – a border between him and the ambiguity.

A thousand carat glare dazzled him. His house was the icy prism causing the dispersion and breaking light into spectral colors. Every single cell of his body sparkled.

The mailman was waiting. He could sense his presence through the vibrating light.

His palm slightly opened and the letter softly landed in its bud, rustling like a butterfly.

“Thank you,” he whispered, swaying the letter in the calyx of his palm.

Then he returned to the house.

The night gushed down instantly as if someone overturned the inkwell. He put the letter on the desk and its flickering flame produced shadows on the wall. He read them as the letter melted, shedding its stearin tears.

Later on, he pressed his forehead against the window and watched the inky clouds, wondering if there was someone else on the other side of the inkwell.

-V. Ulea


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