I ran to the front window and peeked through the drapes, from the open window I could hear my neighbor’s mailbox squeaking. I could also hear the sound of his iPod blasting out a steady beat of hip-hop music, which kept him moving as he walked his route. Usually I wasn’t this excited about the prospect of getting mail—that was until about four months ago, when the mail started coming later. I was very pleased to find out why when I met the new mailman Bastien. Letting the curtain I was clutching drop back into place I ran to the entranceway and stood in front of the mirror above the cherry wood table where I usually dumped my keys. I straightened my tight, white halter top and ran a hand over my already-smooth hair. I can’t believe I’m going to do this. It was something I had been fantasizing about for months, ever since Bastien had started delivering the mail in my neighborhood. I had been living a somewhat cloistered life since my divorce. I settled into a routine, and the days began to blur into one another.
