OTHER THAN HOLIDAYS, Sundays are the worst. I know he won't come, but still I check the box two or three times to be sure. Holidays kill me, especially on Saturdays or Mondays. I get so antsy, two days without mail, I have to drink or go out of town to calm down.

My fantasy is that he'll make an exception for me. One Sunday he's going to surprise me, stroll by on his day off—but in uniform—just to deliver my electric bill and detergent sample a day early. Because I'm special.

Now I lean against the couch-back, waiting. From this window I get the best view: the porch, the overgrown lawn the landlord never mows, the road, the yippy Rat Terrier perpetually tied to the tree trunk across the street, the empty driveway, flies buzzing around the garbage cans. He usually comes around noon on Tuesdays and it's already ten past. I hope he's not hurt.

"Audrey. Again?" Izzy, the roommate, patters into the living room and yawns dramatically. Her damp, brown hair drips over the shoulders of a tattered pink robe, on the back of which are sewn the felt-lettered words CUDDLY POOH. Eyeing me on the couch, she sighs. "This bitch needs to get fucked," she says, but not meanly. With her cool, slit eyes and lilting voice, Izzy is the kind of girl for whom crassness assumes a natural affability. I've never met anyone else who can make vulgarity sound so feminine.

"What," I say. "I'm just waiting for him to come."

Izzy arches her eyebrow.

"I mean—not like that—just, the delivery of the mail into the slot is all."

Izzy scratches her thigh and says, "What you're saying is, you want him to deliver his package to your slot. I got a D in Introductory Psych and even I pick up the Freudian undercurrent."

"Shut up," I say, peering through the Venetian blinds.

She jumps onto the couch next to me. "Is he here yet? Is he here yet? Audrey, is he here?" My forehead pressed against the window glass as I wave my arm at her, as in shoo! shoo!

"All right," she says. "It's a private moment, I understand." From her bedroom doorway, she turns and adds, "Dim the lights, light some candles, that kind of thing."

As if on cue, the mail truck rolls up to the house across the street and stops, as always, by the yipping pooch. My fingers are crossed and it pays off. He's wearing the shorts! Legs, lean and muscular, stride along the pavement. The way he moves excites me in so peculiar a way; I have the urge to cry out, "Dem gams, boy! Dem gams!" like some roaring twenties flapper or something. If Izzy overheard me I'd never get the end of it. As he marches across the street his belly bulges over his brown belt the slightest bit. A love handle, I guess. I don't mind. I like it. Love handle, like the way he carries his mailbag or how he gingerly drops each letter through the slot, one by one. An image flashes in my mind: him pulling—love-handling—my breast as I moan with pleasure. Even though we're doing it, he's still wearing his uniform.

We live in a split-down-the-middle duplex. Izzy and I are 404B, and even though we're farther away from the porch steps, he always comes to my door first. It's the little things. He's not taken in by the superficial charm of 404A's Hello Kitty welcome mat and uncluttered porch half. Taking mail to the squeaky sorority girl next door is part of the job, but delivering to me, that's part of his life.

Headed for the driveway, he stops suddenly and returns to the truck, lugs out a large cardboard box. Oh boy, maybe I'll have to sign for it. As he carries the package up the steps, his forehead drips with sweat. This is perfect. Hot day, I'll say, and offer him a glass of water. We'll get to talking and things would have to happen from there.

He's here. I rush to the door, my hand on the knob, ready to answer at the first ring. When he drops the mail through the slot in a bunch, I know something's wrong. I wait for a ring, a knock, a cough, anything. What's the matter? I'd open the door anyway, but I don't want to seem desperate.

Returning to the window, I watch him drag the box to 404A. And before he has a chance to knock, there she is, giggling breathily and twirling her hair as she signs the electronic clipboard. "Thanks so much," she says. "I owe you something," and she tears the box open. Digging through the packing peanuts she pulls out some kind of brown, peapod-shaped produce—a tamarind. I should have known. Fucking Fruit of the Month Club. She hands it to him and he nods appreciatively. As she waves goodbye, the wind blows against her skirt and an Oscar the Grouch thong peeks out. How cute, you slut.

"Hag!" I say to the apartment's dividing wall. "Bitch, your whore-tricks won't work on a man of class. You'll never seduce him with your thongs and exotic fruits."

I console myself by holding the bundle of envelopes to my breast. Raising it to my face, I can smell the soap from his hands on it, I swear. (I've sniffed all the different brands at the supermarket, but I can't find a match.) And see, on the welcome rug, what a neat little stack he's left. Some magazines, and he didn't even roll them up, such care. Unlike with 404A. I'm sure he just folds and squishes and crinkles hers. She doesn't mean anything to him.

There's a New Yorker (so he knows I'm educated), Mother Earth News (I care about big issues), Grapes of Last vintage wine catalog (I have taste), and Mad Magazine (I don't take myself too seriously). Also, two small boxes: one containing a pack of Globospears, a new breath-freshening gum, and the other a trial box of Moon Pearls, a high-end brand of tampon. That's how comfortable we are with each other. Resting atop it all is a sample packet of Woofies, a new kind of dog biscuit. Of course, I don't own a dog, but I'll bet he's an animal lover.

In the kitchen Izzy is having eggs over easy and coffee. Finally dressed, her robe hangs discarded on a chair. The broken toaster ejects two slices of still frozen bread. Izzy butters them without noticing. Without looking up form her plate, she says, "How was he?" in a way to suggest more than just innocent mail delivery.

"I thought that girl in 404A would have graduated and moved out by now," I say.

"Oh! Sounds like Tiffany-Amber is moving in on your man."

"Fruit of the Month Club," I say to myself. "I should have thought of that."

Izzy glances at the wall clock and hastily shovels the dregs of her breakfast into her mouth. Finished, she stands. "Gotta get to work."

"A little early?" I don't know what kind of job Izzy has, only that she often works late into the night. I'm afraid to ask.

"Working overtime," she says and immediately breaks into an operatic rendition of Bachman Turner Overdrive's "Taking Care of Business," moon walking and swinging an air guitar.

God, I think, she's so pretty, and confident. I bet she could hook him, if she wanted. To men, Izzy is a pale scoop of ice cream over a warm slice of cherry pie: inviting, classic, deep, tart.

I look like a cartoon character: webs of blonde hair, big round eyes floating over an insignificant nose and a flat-lining mouth. Some guys love this look. Unfortunately, it's the awkward virgin type, really into Japanese animation and schoolgirl outfits. He'll mash his palm against your bra, panting, and ask if you're "drenched" yet—something he heard in a cheesy porn video. Not that I know from personal experience.

"You're cute," I say.

"Oh, you charm. Need a ride?"

I shake my head. What I haven't told her is that I've dropped my midday classes so that I can be here when he comes.

Izzy shrugs. "Smell ya later, dyke." Soon I hear the growl of her Vespa fading into the street.

Alone, I go to my room and turn on the computer. I log online and sign 404A up for some things. In a few days' time, she'll be getting, via the mail, a sample tube of vaginal dryness cream, a home AIDS-testing kit, pamphlets and assorted literature from Narcotics Anonymous, National Herpes Dating Service, National Psoriasis Foundation, the Ku Klux Klan, Americans for the Fourth Reich. She's also now a lifelong member of the Charles Manson fan club. I feel a little guilty, but love is a battlefield.

For myself, I register for a few more mailing lists: a candy company, cosmetics samples, cleaning supplies, coupons and the like. The more I get, the more there is for him to remember me by.

Now what? I've got class in an hour and the thought of it makes me cringe. Day-to-day living can be unbearable sometimes, I swear. I run errands, eat meals, sleep, go to school, go to the bathroom, watch TV, study, relax, pace around the house, space out, all of that. But it's only meantime to me. My actual life is the few moments he's here each day.


HE IS THE REASON I SHOWER, I think, as I step out of the tub the next morning. Maybe it's weird, the way I feel about him. But if it brings me happiness, what difference does it make? It's good for me. I'm exercising a lot more—I want to be fit like him—and I'm no longer afraid to plan for the future.

I put on some underwear and then slip Izzy's cuddly-pooh robe over my shoulders and go downstairs to the living room. I don't have school today, so there's no use getting dressed. Anyway, it makes me feel sexy, waiting for him like this.

The door slides open and for a second I believe it's him. But it's Izzy, of course, fresh from a night of doing whatever it is she does. She looks me up and down and says, "Well, I'd fuck you, Audrey. Isn't that good enough?" and kicks off her shoes.

Without turning from the blinds I say, "You're chirpy."

"Chirpy," she says. "So chirpy I forgot to mention how sad this has become." I'm ignoring her. "Anyway, his chin. How many stamps to ship that fucking box?"

"It's well-defined, rugged."

"You like to think of that rugged, stubbly chin scratching your thighs, huh?"

I don't say anything.

"Don't think I don't know what you're up to," she says. "All these free samples, I haven't had to buy laundry detergent in months. And you'll max out your credit cards with those magazine subscriptions. Don't you think it's getting a bit out of hand?"

"It's out of hand now, but at the wedding it's a cute story."

"You know ..." she trails off and points toward my waist. "What's that?"

"It's nothing," I say, tightening the robe's belt.

Izzy tugs at it. "You didn't."

"I didn't, all right?" But I did. On my underwear's inside waistband, scrawled with a red Sharpie marker, is his name. (Of course I know his name. It's just that I dare not speak it.)

"This is not sane," she says.

"What's your problem today, Izzy? Mind your own business."

"I bet he's married."

"He's not," I say. "No ring."

"So, lots of men don't wear rings. Yeah, he's probably got some tight-assed little honey at home."

"Izzy, please! He's coming, so beat it."

"Why don't you just talk to him?" She says it like an accusation.

I shoo her away but Izzy grabs my arm and bear-hugs me. Dragging me to the door, she says, "Talk to him. See what a loser he is, so you can get over this pathetic schoolgirl crush. Then we can all get on with our lives. Sheesh." She deposits me outside and locks the door shut. I pound and pound but she won't open up.

Oh god. I'm not ready. And here he comes, the truck. Why didn't I get dressed today? Why didn't I put on makeup? I can't let him see me like this, but there he is, wagging his finger at the snarling terrier. He stops in the street and tilts his sunglasses. He's looking at me. Yesterday it would make my heart melt but now I want to cry—and not in the throes of passion. As he approaches my instinct is to fasten the robe, clutch it like the edge of a cliff. But I have to seem casual. It's a matter of not embarrassing myself. Confidence, the women's magazines have told me, is key.

"Locked out?" he says, and his smile is like two rows of peppermint Pez in a lip-shaped dispenser.

All I can think about is how terrible I must look, how my hair is still damp, my face dotted with blemishes, and how my gut rolls out, emerging with an overeaten breakfast. "No," is all I can muster, and a painful silence follows, punctuated by the insistent yelps of the dog across the street.

"Darn mutt," he says. "Hate those things. Comes with the job, though."

"Yeah," I say. He seems to expect me to continue, so I add, "Tell me about it, man." Man? Man? Who am I, Bart Simpson?

"Really? I thought maybe you had one of your own."

"No, just a roommate."

He laughs! I knew he'd catch on to my delightful sense of humor—the number one thing a man looks for in a woman, I'm told. Plus, I know now he's been paying attention, to my mail, to me. I knew it.

Handing over today's batch of envelopes, he makes way for the porch steps. But I need to leave it on a good impression, to tease him with a compliment, a clever witticism, anything that will make him remember me. "Wait!" I yell. Wait for what, I don't know yet. He turns expectantly. "You're good at that," I say absently. "You carry a lot of mail." Those words, the idiotic words echo tortuously in my head.

He nods and lets out a cursory cough, making slow, awkward steps toward the neighbor's house.

I cannot stop my tongue from moving, my lips from forming words of complete inanity. "I bet it makes you thirsty," I yell after him. "You should carry a water bottle or, like, a canteen."

"Uh huh," he says and hastily crosses the street, pausing only to glance over his shoulder.

Right now it would be a relief to discover I have a tumor pushing into the part of my brain that controls speech. At least then I would know why I say such stupid things.

Izzy has unlocked the entrance but as soon as I take one step inside, I hear her slam the back door and trail away on her scooter. Fine. If I spoke to her now I'd scream and probably break something. How can I forgive her? I was so close and now he thinks I'm not what he thought, a weirdo, nervous and sloppy. But it's my fault, too. I should have realized that I'm not good enough for him. He'll go after someone normal, 404A probably. For the first time in my life I feel it would be appropriate to place a backhand on my forehead and sigh. Woe is me.

To console myself, I go upstairs to my room, reach under my bed and pull out the box. On top is the thank-you letter he wrote for us after we tipped him a plate of Christmas cookies last year. I don't even bother reading it because I know it by heart. Underneath is a postcard advertisement for stamps. I remember when he personally handed that to me, how his fingertips brushed my knuckle. And here's an electronic stylus I slipped into my pocket one day after I had signed for a package, and some assorted envelopes—just my favorites. And then there's the prize of my collection. I uncap an old Zoloft prescription bottle and there it is, a single brown hair. I found it stuck to an electric bill envelope one day. Certainly it's his.

If only something would happen, some remarkable coincidence or semi-tragic event that brings us together. Then he'd share my love, I just know it.

Sometimes I imagine I've been kidnapped by him. I'm locked in this dungeon cell. He calls it The Mailbox. It's actually very posh, with a big, soft bed and pillows everywhere. I'm not allowed to leave, but I live in absolute comfort. Slaves bring me gourmet meals and whatever else I request, no hesitation. He visits the same time everyday and makes love to me for hours. It breaks my heart when he leaves, but he'll always return tomorrow. And sometimes it's different. There's a mail slot on the door. Some days he doesn't come in. He just puts his thing through the slot. He knocks a special rhythm, so I know it's not one of the slaves trying to trick me. Jeez, this is dirty.

I dim the light and lock the door. I don't need any candles.


IZZY AND I DON'T TALK FOR THREE DAYS. She pretends not to care but I can tell it's bugging her. I don't even perch on my spot in the living room. I watch him from my bedroom upstairs, and get the mail when she's gone.

It's inevitable that we make up, I know, and we do, when Izzy walks in with a bottle of peach schnapps in hand. "Do you want me to drink?" she says. "I'll be your pathetic lush stalker. I'll follow you everywhere. You'll have to make excuses for me when you have company. I mean, assuming you ever have company."

I don't say anything.

"Talk to me," Izzy whines. She holds the bottle between her legs and humps the air. I have to laugh.

"How much have you had?"

"None yet." She smiles. "Want to start?"

Soon, the alcohol crawls warmly up my neck as we walk through the night air to the Grocery Gallery. Izzy has decided that she needs to eat an entire box of Twinkies, now. "If I can do it in one sitting," she says, "it must mean something, right? Like I'm really going to go places." Taking lazy, heavy steps we cross the street. The store marquee fluoresces over the parking lot. Izzy pretends to trip on the curb. She's only had about two sips of the schnapps. She always does this, acts drunker than she really is. Tonight I don't mind.

"Anyway, what was I saying before?" The automatic doors open before us. "Oh, yes. See, all a man is is a dick with all that annoying extraneous material. Just go for the stuff! Get laid!" she says, elongating the vowels. A stern-faced woman in a pea coat scowls at us as she pushes her cart through the aisle.

It's pointless, but I explain to Izzy what I'm looking for. I tell her that I had a long-term boyfriend once ("upon a time," she says) and that I'm not like her. What I want is more than friendship or even romance. There has to be something magical about it, something fateful. He should complete me, like until we're together I'm missing a piece of myself.

"Whatever," she says, dragging me to the Hostess display. A cardboard cutout of Twinkie the Kid stands stoically atop a grand snack cake pyramid. A bored, teenage-looking clerk carries a mop to the next aisle and begins to sweep up. I know him, but not enough to remember his name. We had a class once. I remember because he was always smiling. No matter how boring the lecture got, there he was in the back corner, grinning contentedly. Whenever I go through his checkout line, he lets me have the dented can discount even on pristine canned goods.

Izzy notices me glancing at him and beams. "So how about him?" she says.

And actually, it wasn't even a glance—more of a fleeting look, a mindless gaze. It meant nothing. "I don't know what you're talking about," I say.

"Oh, come on, Audrey. You do." She's forgotten about the Twinkies now. "Here's an idea. You should totally screw that kid. He looks like a virgin—easy."

"I don't even know him," I say.

Bored clerk glances over at us, recognizes me and waves hello. I try to develop a blank stare that shows I'm lost in thought, checking off the items of a mental shopping list. It's no use. Izzy grabs my wrist and waves for me, like a puppeteer. He smiles and gets back to sweeping.

"I think we should go," I say. I grab Izzy's elbow and lead her to the exit, but she breaks away.

"You're such a wimp," she says, and scooters an orphaned cart past the Twinkie display. From behind a checkout stand, I watch her approach the bored clerk. She taps his shoulder and when he turns she says something to him. He laughs. She points at me and he looks over. Smiling, he shakes his head and turns back to his mop. Izzy faces him and puts her hand out imploringly. He reaches into his pocket.

I go outside and wait for Izzy by the bus stop. I'm aware of what she's doing, and I'll refuse it. She should know by now that there's no one else. If she wants to help me, she can help me get him, not some random guy I don't even know. This isn't right. It's not the way it's supposed to happen. It's forced and awkward and desperate. Where's the magic?

Izzy appears a few minutes later, triumphant and smug. "He'll pick you up tomorrow at eleven," she says. "It's a lunch date."

"Izzy," I protest, "that's the time the mail comes."

"Don't play hard to get," she says. "I know you're going."

"Oh, you know?" I say. I feel myself blush, just a little. I don't know why. It must be the alcohol.

"When you saw him, you got this look on your face," she says, "like you were about to sign for a package."


I STAND ON THE COUCH CUSHION, modeling for Izzy. I've spent all morning primping, clothed myself in a tasteful but fashionable polka-dot skirt and a no-fuss white blouse, even slipped on a pair of silver, moon-shaped earrings. It's all very classy, I'm sure.

"You're doable," Izzy says. "Slutty enough, maybe overdressed."

"But I have to feel it," I say. "I won't feel ready in a t-shirt and jeans."

I know what she's always thought: that I built him up as this idol that no actual human being can compete with; that I don't really like him, I just like the feeling of liking him; that it would only end in disappointment. Now she thinks I've given him up for this Grocery Gallery guy.

"Trust me, chirpy," she says. "Even a quickie will do a world of good."

What she doesn't know is that maybe I'm not dressed up for the clerk. Fate will tell me what's right. If he shows up, then fine, I'll go on a date with him, and we'll see what happens. But only if he gets here first. If the mail arrives before him, it will only confirm what I've known all along. He is the man for me, and the bundle of letters he so gently cradles today will one day be replaced by our own bundle of love.

Izzy tugs a wrinkle out of my stocking. There's something maternal about it. I tell her I should be alone now and without a word she leaves the room.

Through the blinds, the sidewalk sparkles with the sun's rays. The old terrier is locked inside while its owner mows the lawn, shimmering green grass. Three pigeons hover like guardian angels, their claws hooked around the telephone wire. A little girl rides a big-wheeled plastic tricycle down the block. And the mail truck pulls up to the curb.

An image flashes in my mind: me, in this outfit and under a wedding arch, hugging him by the waist. He wears his postal uniform with a bowtie and a wedding band around his finger. I toss a bouquet of dead letters and watch it fall into Izzy's arms.

He bends over to tie his shoe and rising, adjusts his beige mailbag, when another car—a white Ford Tempo—slows and parks in front of the truck. It's the clerk.

Another image: this time it's the clerk, on bended knee. He holds a misshapen wedding ring in his hand. It's dented, he says, but my love requires no discount. We walk hand in hand through another arch, this one built with stacks of Hostess boxes. On top, Twinkie the Kid looks down on us and salutes. A priest stands behind a checkout register as we recite our vows.

I look away, close the shades.

Everything would be easier if only something dramatic would happen. Any number of things, really, I'm not picky.

The house catches fire and I'm pinned helplessly under a piece of furniture. As I watch the flames engulf my body, I realize what a fool I've been. Just then, the clerk bursts through the door and carries me out single-handedly. The flames attack him, too, and we never make it out the threshold. Our flesh sears together and, meeting our tragic end, we literally melt in each other's blistered arms. Either that, or we are taken to the burn ward, where we slowly, painfully recuperate our bodies—and our hearts. He was in love with his postal carrier, too, he tells me, but he's over her now that we've found each other. Months later we hold our wedding ceremony atop a dormant volcano in Hawaii, a grimly romantic reminder of what brought us together.

There's a knock at the entrance. I get up and stand on the welcome mat. But I don't open the door. I just listen.

The mailman discovers he only has six months to live. With the bad news comes the jolt of realization—the love he has always secretly felt for me. After serenading me from the porch steps, we spend the rest of his life traveling around the world, reveling in his last moments. As his health declines, the adventurous romance of our daily lives turns heartrending. Still, there is a quiet nobility to my endless devotion. I bathe his lesions, change his bedpan, feed him until he is too weak to chew and has to switch to tubes. Weeks later, as he takes his dying breath, I jump off the Eiffel Tower.

More knocking. It won't stop.

Or, hey, maybe he freaks out. Maybe he's been a complete psycho this whole time. He brings a rifle to the post office and holds the patrons hostage. It's on the national news. The whole world is following the story, watching the footage on TV. He always seemed like a normal guy, his colleagues and neighbors say. Nobody knows what made him do it. Thirteen hours later, in the midst of negotiation, he shoots a bunch of people in a psychotic declaration of his undying love for the girl in 404A, or Izzy.

I don't know what to do. I don't know what, but he's still knocking—whoever it is, I mean—tapping harder and harder. I won't answer it. I can't. The mail slot clatters, the pounding is so insistent, and the hinges squeal.

I just want to feel the kind of love that makes you shoot innocent bystanders. Then I'll open the door.


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