I’m used to it. I’ve even grown to like it, in a weird sort of makes-me-cry way. The problem is, I still haven’t quite figured out what it means.
I regain my composure after a second or two of sniffling, and unlock the mailbox for apartment thirteen. Couple of bills for Kyle, the week’s Giant Eagle coupons, and a dozen and a half political ads. I wedge the real mail in my elbow, and toss the junk into the pile on the floor near the door. It used to be a wastebasket, but with the elections coming up, it’s just a mass of kindergarten-level back-and-forth. Crap like that really disgusts me. I’ll be so glad the morning after the election, when we can all just put this nonsense behind us.
When I get back, Kyle is sitting in the living room, flipping a few of the DVDs back and forth on the shelf. She’s wearing cargo shorts and a spaghetti-strap top. Kid’s gonna bake to death in that. “You set?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “These are yours.” I hand her the bills, and she makes some small clucking noises. “Something up?”
“They shouldn’t be sending me a bill for this,” she says. “It’s all supposed to be electronic and paperless.”