As I climb the stairs from the apartment’s laundry room, I see a man standing just outside the front door, scribbling a note. He’s wearing a uniform of some sort, but I can’t make it out; it looks really dorky, as it includes shorts. I’ve often found that the kinds of guys in uniforms that need shorts have legs that should not see any more light than is present in their bedrooms between changing from pajamas into long jeans, preferably a couple inches longer than their legs. I’ve also found that the only uniforms that require shorts belong to the post office or some other delivery company.
I barely catch up to him as he climbs into his truck; apparently he didn’t hear me screaming for him to wait while I dashed madly after him, waving the tiny yellow “We Missed You, First (And Final) Attempt” tag he’d just finished filling out. He laughs it off, and I feign good humor. It’s a common mistake. Anyone could have made it, honest. Rather than indulge my fantasy of showing him exactly where Brown can stick what they can do for me, I accept the very large box from him, sign, and slowly make my way back into the apartment.
I’m a good person. Really I am. I also saw “Grumpy Old Men”, and maybe it’s telling that the one line I remember from it is the one about it being a federal offense to peek at other peoples’ mail. Still, I continue to rationalize this as I stare at the box, which now occupies a central position on our squat coffee table. Kyle did ask me to be here to accept the package when it arrived. And yeah, I did technically sign that I was ‘Kyle Salvatore’ just a few minutes ago, so if you think about it, I’ve already committed a federal offense. So opening it isn’t compounding anything– it’s really just coming full circle. Nevermind that I have no idea what I’d be looking at once I open it. It’s for the best, I need to check that the delivery was completed properly. It’s not like I’m nosy and bored and she owes me or anything like that. I’m a good girl.