There was an alleyway to the left of it, and a vacant storefront on the right. It all looked ready to tumble down around Minnie’s ears. I entered, the buzzer sounding. Minnie was on the phone, whispering and looking flustered, her puffy cheeks ruddy. She muttered something hastily, and hung up. The post office was long and narrow, with a wall of post office boxes on the right ranging from small at the top to larger ones along the bottom. Along the left wall were supplies to purchase: envelopes, brown paper for wrapping, bubble wrap, and tape. About halfway down was Minnie’s counter, and behind her a door to what I assumed was a mail-sorting room. Minnie stared at me. She’s a woman in her sixties, broad-beamed and not tall, with messy gray curls. She wore a postal uniform, a pale blue golf shirt and navy pants, stretched across her heavy form. First I collected my mail from our post office box, and then I approached the counter. As far as I knew no one actually liked Minnie.
