Some Postman

A conversation between strangers about 'love'

“All it takes is a little practice,” I tell you.

“Nah, I don’t believe it,” you say back.

“Suit yourself.” I start up my car and I’m about to continue with my route, but you stop me.

“Wait...”

I put the truck in park and wait patiently for you to ask what I knew was soon to be asked. I stare at you, eager to demonstrate my talent, or I guess more aptly, my wisdom.

“Let’s say I’m curious. Could you show me?”

I cease the rumbling of the engine.

“Come on in,” I beckon with mock formality.

I lead you to the back.

You are standing behind me on the precipice of the storage section of the delivery vehicle. I hold up my hand to stop you. 

“Customers aren’t allowed in the back. Well, technically you’re not allowed in the UPS vehicle at all, but... I won’t tell.”

You nod in bureaucratic understanding. “Do you see any? Is it ‘seeing’ or is it more some other sense?” you ask, practically bouncing with poorly contained excitement. 

“It’s more like feeling. And yes, I felt two when I picked up my load this morning... I left them here somewhere.” The back of my car was a scene of utter organization. Company code demanded it. I despised it.

My eyes light up and I clap my hands when I remember I had put the letters on my dashboard earlier. I snatch them up and show them to you with a proud look on my face.

You stare back at me, expecting something. “Well?” you say.

“Well what? Those right there are love letters. Through and through.” 

“How do I know you aren’t pulling my leg?”

“I’m not.”

You look deeper at the letters. They look pretty average. One is heavier and the envelope is darker than the other, as if they had more to say and took more time to do so. The other is brighter, obviously newer paper. Both were handwritten. I could tell.

“You totally are. These aren’t love letters, they’re just boring old mail.”

“Not true. Not true at all. These right here are perfect specimen.

“Okay, then let me open it.”

I smiled at you with a mix of pity and gratification. “Tell me, what makes a letter a ‘love letter’?”

“Oh I don’t know... hearts and flowers and sappy talk. A private proclamation of love.” You tapped your foot, but played along.

My smile widened. “Sure, that’s good enough. Now let me ask you another question: what do you think I deliver all day long?”

“Packages? Magazines? You know, mail.”

“Yes, exactly. Packages and magazines. How many personal letters have you received in the last year?”

You search your memory. “Um...”

“How about the last decade?”

“Well...”

“Your whole life. How many personal, handwritten, non-mass-mailed letters have you received, stretching back to the day you were born?”

“Well my grandma sent me a thank-you note for a gift I got her one year.”

“Does your grandma love you?”

Author's Note

This was started as a dialogue practice for me, so I tried to tell as much of the story as possible between two quotation marks.