Petra: The latest Installment

Because she is the only thing going on in my life at the moment, I give you the second installment of her life on paper…or screen…or whatever. She’s far from being finished. So shut up about character development and how there needs to be more. There will be. For now, this is all I got. Besides, I’m lying on my back at the Jersey Shore and really can’t be bothered by mail order brides at the moment. 

 

 

 

Petra grabbed her Burberry umbrella leaning in the corner near the doors, shook it open at the same time pushing the glass door open with the toe of her shoe, returning to the rain. With an absent minded gesture, like flicking a mosquito from her skin, she let the second letter flutter into the garbage bin stationed outside the post office entrance.

 

With each click of her heels through the rain, she felt the urge to return to the garbage bin grow heavier in the pit of her belly. It was almost impossible to walk completely upright. The weight was an anchor tied to her waste. The next puddle she splashed into could be an opening to the sea, and the end of her.

 

 As she waited for each light to turn green, she glanced back over her shoulder in the direction of the post office. It was getting further and further away. She could not dive into the mail slot, but she could dive straight into the garbage bin, retrieve the discarded letter, open it, and find out for herself what exactly she had set in motion regarding her husband’s fate. But she didn’t. She kept walking. Besides, there would never be enough time to back track and make it home by 4:30. And there was the dinner to get ready for….a dress to pick out, shoes to slide into, a face to put on.

 

For the dinner party there was nothing for Petra to do. All assignments had been dolled out to the staff by her husband. Her only responsibility was to show up in her seat at exactly  the right time, looking exotically beautiful and silent. There was no reason for her to know anything about the people attending, or exactly what is being celebrated. This is fine with her, this time. For she would have something else on her mind, for once: the letters. Yes. The distraction of the letters would get her through the tedium of formal business talk she did not understand. She would be wondering about the mail slot and the garbage bin. She would be thinking about home, her father, who named her, and her brothers. And of the name of the addressee printed neatly in the middle of both envelopes. She would be re-writing his name over and over with her mind’s hand. Before she knew it, the dinner would be finished. Everyone would retire to the library for more drinks, which was her signal to make herself scarce. 

 

Unfortunately, with her head full of these very distractions, Petra made a terrible mistake: She spoke.

 

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she realized her mistake. Her throat, she was sure,was frozen in fear… for a second, she imagined icecicles hanging there like stalagmites, paralyzing and poking her voice box. 

 

Maybe no one understood her. She found herself hoping, for the first time she had been in the US, that her accent was thick enough that no one had any idea what she was mumbling about. She was Russian. She was Afghani. She was nothing but a mail order bride. She was sure no one was paying attention. She was wrong.

 

Crystal wine glasses were raised toward gaping mouths. Other guests at the table were intently scraping their knives against their plates, heads bent in such a severe manner, Petra thought they might begin lapping up their food like dogs.

 

She broke the rules. Was it the wine? No. She always only allowed herself a few sips just for this reason. The anxiety pills? Did she take more than her usual dosage in anticipation of the dinner? No. She never forgot the dosage. Besides, the pills were always delivered to her personally by the hand of her husband. 

 

She knew why she spoke out of turn. The subject was close to her own heart and the stranger seated directly across from her had made her forget the presence of her husband all together. It was the blue in his eyes…a color so rarely seen in the mountains of Afghanistan, but when seen among the children there, one knew without doubt who a child’s father was. It was the blue of her own eye.  And then her mouth began to move, to the horror and rage of her keeper.

 

“Well,” the stranger had offered to the conversation, “whenever Petra and Thomas DO decide to have children, they will be exceptionally beautiful.” He took another sip of his red wine and stole a glance at Petra over the rim of his glass. “ I mean, thanks to Petra. God knows you’re an ugly son of a bitch, Tom.” 

 

His sarcastic remark brought the appropriate, acceptable amount of giggles and sighs from around the table…even from Thomas. But then, Petra told a truth involuntarily as she stared directly into this man’s eyes; one of many truths1 that were suffocating under a grave of lies. 

 

“But there will be no children, Thomas can’t….”

Re-occurring Fiction

I haven’t blogged in a while. Mostly because I either have nothing to say, or the things I want to say would end certain relationships in my life for sure. 

So, I give you my latest writing assignment from the Gotham Writer’s Workshop. It’s nothing fancy. Just a little ditty about a re-occurring dream….which was what we had to write about. (no choice in the matter of assignments, you know.)

Anyway, it’s something to read.

 I’m walking through a run-down neighborhood at night. Screen doors hang off of their hinges, couches with the stuffing pouring out of them take their final rest on front porches. Scattered, working street lights guide my way through the dark down a street pock marked with pot holes. There isn’t another person in sight…just dogs barking at me  through chain link fences as I pass. 

 

I should be afraid. I’m alone. I’m in the dark. The neighborhood is dodgy and I’m trying not to trip over myself in the blackness. But I walk with the assuredness that I’ve been here before. I know every house by heart, brick by brick. I’ve rested on these porches with friends and family. I know these dogs in the darkness. Though they scream at me as I walk by, I know with certainty, they would never harm me. 

 

It occurs to me, I’ve lived here before. Flowers bloomed in pots on these porches, instead of couches. White picket fences sprouted from the grass, instead of hard chain link. Dogs wore smiles and shook their rears in anticipation of a scratch or a pet. Despite the condition of the neighborhood now, I’m still happy to be here, walking down its streets.

 

At the end of one street, with the river rushing past the front door a couple hundred feet away down a large slope, I walk up the crooked crumbling steps of a particularly ugly home. The screen door practically falls off in my hands as I turn the knob to enter the porch. The floor boards beneath me are few and far between. My feet automatically find the right places to step as I move, with a smile, through the front door.

 

The furniture is barely standing on what legs it has left. The sofa is slumped onto its left side. The rocking chair needs to be stained and is missing a bar at its back. The piano is encased in cobwebs. I feel my smile shine brighter, the spot in my chest where they say your heart should be, is light and open. The living room should smell musty. But, to me, I can’t get enough of its aroma into my lungs. it is the smell of something past…of something good in this run down, dirty room. 

 

The entire room seems to be tilted onto its side. Something is missing everywhere. The glass windows breathe through gaping holes, the throw rugs are worn through so that each individual stitch can be seen. It’s here, standing on one of these rugs in the middle of the room, that I notice something different from the rest of my dream. How is it that I can notice all these imperfections? Big and small?

 

 And then I see it. Tiny streams of light making its way through the dust and grime covering the windows, poking its persistent head through those holes there, and the cracks in the roof, even coming up from the floor boards to touch my feet. It lights up the cobwebs around the room and they seem like the twinkle lights on a Christmas Tree. The darkness I walked through outside doesn’t live in here. Although, the home is coming undone, and it’s clearly in a dangerous state to inhabit, it contains the brightest scene of my dream.

New Assignment: The Window

The Window

 

These years, she spent too much time looking through windows…looking out from the home she felt had become a holding cell. There were the windows in the living room, conveniently placed over the couch that looked out onto her perfect tree-lined suburban street, where no one ever dared to emerge from their climate controlled environments.

 

 There was the window in her daughter’s bedroom with a view of the backyard and the swing set and toys thrown across the lawn. Looking out this window made her smile. Even when the house was empty, she could hear the squeals of excitement and laughter coming from deep down in her daughter’s belly. 

 

The pane of glass she found herself staring out of most was her own bedroom window. She could see her Japanese Maple from there….almost reach out and touch it if she sat on the radiator under the window. She waited all winter and half of spring for that tree to bring back it’s maroon leaves that lit up in a fire when the sun hit it just right…usually at the end of the day…when she needed to sit and look out her bedroom window the most…when she needed to perch on the radiator and stare into the warmth of her Japanese Maple. 

Longboat Key & More Fictional Death

I’m already two ambien in, so this might not make much sense. When do I ever? Anyway, I find the sleepier I get, the more honest I become. And so, it is a perfect time to blog. About what? I have no idea. I’m sure a few interesting things have happened since last I wrote. Let me see:

We just returned from Florida. A place I will visit very infrequently from this point forward, and will absolutely never live. So many reasons for this: plane and car rides with a motion sick 4 year old. She will vomit at least twice during the trip..of that you can be sure of. A 737 Boeing plane is not big enough to hold Sean. Worst two hours, ever. 

The beaches were beautiful…the highlight of the trip…mostly because there was nothing else to do. 

So…ahhhh..that was my week. Moist, humid, salty, and dreading the trip home. All in all, it was a good time. Oh yeah, and our bed was too short. When my feet hang off the bed, it’s too effing short. Poor Rick. I hope he still likes me.

So: here’s my latest draft of something from my class that I don’t know what to do with yet have at it and be brutal..that’s the way I like it:

 

“Grace….” It was the last word of his life spoken. His eyes rolled up and back searching every neglected corner of his memory for her. He found one, the last one:

 

“I won’t do it.” She had said. “I will not be there to watch you die. You go on about it like it’s some kind of ceremony, to get dressed up for and there will be finger sandwiches and drinks. It’s absurd. A goddamn side show. I won’t do it.” That’s what she had said to his proposal of her spending his last moments with him. 

 

He replied with: “You’re only worried that you won’t find something suitable to wear for the occasion.” He smiled and gave her what was left of the shine his eyes once held.

 

“If you’re weren’t so sick, I’d slap you. Maybe throw my coffee in your face.” She looked down into her coffee cup, slowly swirling the light brown drink with her spoon. “No one wants me there, anyway.” It was barely a whisper. He reached across their small, round, cafe table and felt her strong, healthy hands.

 

“I do.” He said.

 

Chemotherapy attacks anything that stands in its way: cancer cells, healthy cells, the entire immune system. Relationships. He knew the cancer wasn’t going to kill, but something else would. He had loved her first, before anyone else. Even before she loved him. He loved her still, after it was too late: one marriage done in a hurry for convenience and the other out of spite. They both knew the irrevocable mistakes they had made at the moment of their separate “I do’s”.

 

She was right. It did turn into a sideshow, but without the finger sandwiches. His friends, his family, hovered around the sofa that had been his sick bed the last couple of weeks. If it wasn’t for the illness, it would have been death by suffocation. From his cocoon of quilts and pillows he could make out some pieces of their conversation.

 

“Grace? As in “State of Grace”? hmmm.”

“Grace. Yes. That makes perfect sense for a man in his…his situation.”

“Grace. Surely a dying man would think of such things.”

 

Their whispers buzzed around his ears like gnats that he didn’t have the strength to swat away. He wanted to shout at them from the depths of the sofa: “Wrong!”

 

At the mention of Grace’s name, his wife had not pulled her hand away from his. Her stomach didn’t knot. And she did not demand answers and confessions from her dying husband. She only looked into the face of the Grandfather clock that was keeping watch over all of them from his dark corner.

 

“Poor thing”, someone whispered. “I don’t think she can take another minute of this.”

 

It was around this time everyone began to notice that he was lying there, on the sofa, perfectly still. They began to panic, with the exception of his wife, and pulled their worried faces out of their pockets. Was the time here? How would they know for sure? What should they do? But he wasn’t gone yet. His wife knew as she stared down into his white, face. She knew he was with her. Grace. She swiveled around on the ottoman she had pulled up next to the couch, to check the clock one more time. Fifteen more minutes passed by and she glared at the pendulum, wishing her eyes held the power to stop its sway. 

 

But every moment passing over the two of them was unstoppable, one tick of the clock after another; until she began to feel swept away and battered, unable to catch her breath between each new swell. She turned her eyes back down to the shriveled eighty pound man in front of her. How he had suffered…and for so long. And yet she would prolong this suffering? Yes. She leaned closer into him.

 

“Not yet,” She had whispered. “Please. Just a bit longer.”

 

His eye lids opened only halfway. There was his wife. Her hand over his. He wondered: How long had she been here? And why? Now, he only wanted to be left alone to die with a beautiful memory or two. And she makes a fool of herself, hovering over him, asking him to hold on just a little while longer.

 

Her hand fluttered to her neckline, fingers searching for the golden butterfly on a chain, which she fidgeted with when anxious.

 

“Can you hear me?” Just a whisper. The words she had to say right now were not for anyone else’s ears.

 

“Darling….” She laid her head on his paper thin hand. “Listen to me. If you can, love, hold on.”  He wondered if she was getting satisfaction out of his slow demise. If he had the strength, he would have flung her off his hand as if she were no more than a fly.

 

But then he could suddenly feel her cool breath on the edge of his ear. “She’s coming.”

 

He closed his eyes again. She? She. Impossible. He did not hear his wife correctly. He was almost there. He closed his eyes again… telling himself, for the last time…to die inside a moment that no longer existed.

 

“No. Not Yet!”. Her breathing had become rapid and she no longer cared who overheard her. 

 

The onlookers hushed their small talk with a cascade of hisses and gasps.

“…oh my…”

“Poor thing.”

“…it must be soon.”

“Any moment now….terrible, terrible.”

“God damn that woman!” She screamed, suddenly, pulling at her hair as she jumped off of the ottoman and sped toward the Grandfather clock.  3:30. She put her hands to her cheeks, feeling the skin flush and then burn. 

 

“An hour late…”, she mumbled to herself. “An hour.” She began shaking her head, staring down at the perfectly varnished hard wood floor. “She’s not going to make it.”

 

She looked up into the eyes of the person closest to her. But there was no recognition of who it was. It was impossible to see through her tears and strands of hair. That didn’t stop her from grabbing this person by the shoulders and to begin rocking back and forth.

 

“Where is she?”, she asked this person. “Why hasn’t she come?” A pair of hands peeled her off the shoulders and shoved her away a few paces. She tried to compose herself, pushing the hair out of her face, and grabbing a tissue someone had shoved into her hands. She wiped at the black streaks of mascara she knew must be trickling down her face and made her way to the picture window across the room. Crossing her arms, she turned her neck slightly to take one last look at her husband. She felt the knife slice through her gut, the wind knocked out of her, and she had to put one hand on the wall to steady herself. 

 

As she absorbed the truth of the moment, as family members rushed to the sofa at the sound of his last gasp for breath, she didn’t know why she did it, but her hand slowly pushed back a white lace curtain from the window.  She saw across the street, in a black Mercedes, a woman hunched over the steering wheel, sobs rippling over her body. 

Conversations with Ourselves

This is not a narcissistic act. This is a desperate act. I’m waiting on feedback from my instructor on this story and he’s taking his time….probably because he can’t figure out how to tell me to crawl under a rock and never hold a pen again. So, I’m putting it here and want everyone who comes across it to be brutally honest. Critique to your heart’s content, I need all the help I can get.

Allyson: you do not get to comment, b/c you already have….many times.

 

Conversations with Ourselves 

 

He said: “I’m going to die.”

Just like that.

 

She did not look up at him; made no acknowledgement that she had even heard him.  She only willed the green man across the street to show his face. (push the button..push, push, push…ahhh)

 

Then she said as she began to step off the curb: “I know. We all are.”

She took the step down and her shoe disappeared into a muddy, rainbow-swirled puddle.

 

“Christ. God-damn two hundred dollar shoes.” (shake , shake, shake. Oh. That will just have to do.)

 

He said: “No. Soon. I’m going to die soon.” She could never hear anything accurately with that damn hood on, covering half her face.

 

She turned her body completely around to his and looked up to see him beyond the horizon of her fur-lined hood.

“What did you say?”

 

It didn’t seem to matter to her that she was standing in the middle of the street. He took her by the elbow, dodging more puddles and splatter so he could get her to the other side of the street and to his point.

 

“Look at this! Would you just look!” And she pointed a frigid, but perfectly polished finger, at her shoe; halting all other foot traffic behind her. (God-damn it. Sigh. Shake, Shake…) “I know, I know, I should have worn the boots to the office and then changed into the shoes.”

 

He realized he might never get to interrupt the conversation she was having with herself, if he didn’t get her out of the rain. He steered her over to an ATM machine under the stone awning of a bank.

 

“What?…Oh….Yes. This makes sense. This is much better. We should wait it out.” She smooshed herself as close to the large windows of the bank as possible. They weren’t the only ones “waiting it out”. Some were in line for the ATM; others huddled close to the stone walls of the bank, peeking up at the sky now and then, muttering, swearing, shaking their umbrellas.

 

He pushed back the silly carcass that was her hood. She was tiny underneath it. She seemed sturdier, stronger with it over her head. She was just too small.

 

She said: “How’s my hair?” She tried to catch her reflection in the windows. While fussing with her frizz, pushing it down only to have it spring back up again, he rubbed his hands together nervously. He gave up and thrust his long, thin fingers into his pockets, while just slightly hunching over at the shoulders. He tapped the toe of his sneaker into a shallow puddle over and over.

 

“Stupid.” She hissed at her reflection. “Why did I straighten it today…of all days? And you!” She dug a finger into his chest, shaking him out of his thoughts. “You didn’t even think to bring an umbrella. Of, course.”

 

(Did she just growl at me?)

 

She abandoned her effort to save her hair and decided to just sweep the whole mess up into a sloppy knot on her head. He caught the shiny reflection of the engagement ring entangled with her dark hair as her hands moved over her head. Once she was finished, she finally looked up at him…finally noticed him there for the first time. Something in her face softened immediately and she smiled, leaning into him to lay her head on his chest.

 

“What an awful day”, she mumbled into his sweater. He replied by nodding his head, slipping his arms around her, pulling her even closer – his chin resting on the top of her head.

 

“Did you hear me?” He spoke into her damp hair. She shook her head “no”, squeezing him back.

 

Surprisingly, every movement and moment seemed to take on the slow motion effect of a bad sci-fi movie. Wet pedestrians were in mid-shake – their umbrellas dripping gigantic lollipop-like raindrops. A young woman was frozen in place at the ATM, waiting to collect her cash. Even the hectic, racing breathing of the woman he was holding calmed, so that he could make out each one of her heartbeats. The knot in his intestines released itself.

 

“I’m sick.” He breathed the words into her hair. She moved slightly against him – a shudder. But he held on to her tight.

 

“All the headaches. The exhaustion. I’ve been to see the doctor, like you said I should.”

 

The words he couldn’t seem to find while standing in front of his bathroom mirror tumbled forward now, easily. They were all out of order and made little sense, but at least they had found their own way out.

 

She struggled harder against him – trying to break away. He held onto her with a fierce grip. He didn’t want to see her face. He wouldn’t be able to go on with what he needed to say, if he saw her face. He imagined her tears soaking into his sweater. He continued:

 

“There’s going to be some chemo. Maybe some radiation. I don’t know. I haven’t decided yet.” He breathed in the rainy scent of her hair, rested his cheek on the very top of her head. There. It was done. He felt every muscle that had frozen like stones of ice under his skin begin to melt.

 

Her desperation was apparent…to everyone around them. She was still trying to wriggle away from him, her hands balled into fists pounded into his sides. He stroked her back while keeping her in his arms.

 

“Shhhhh…We’ll figure it out…the wedding…the treatments…”

 

Finally, she brought the heel of one of her two hundred dollar pumps down hard onto the top of his sneaker. He released his hold on her immediately, and balancing on one foot, hobbled over to lean against the ATM machine for support.

 

She glared up at him. “Jesus Christ! What the hell do you think you’re doing?” She began smoothing out her crumpled dress and pushing back stray strands of hair away from her face; which was obviously flushed.

 

“I could barely breathe! What is wrong with you?” She shot him one her looks he was very familiar with: If we weren’t in public, right now, my shoe would have been in your balls and not on your sneaker.

 

As he nursed his throbbing toes; shoe off, inspecting for any damage, the young woman at the ATM finally received her money and threw him the same kind of look over her shoulder as she passed him.

 

She said: “Look. The monsoon is finished. We better hurry. I can’t be late again.” She surveyed him as he rubbed his foot. He was more of a hindrance when he walked her to work than a help. She tapped a shoe impatiently.

 

“God knows you have nothing else to do and can take your sweet time. We can’t all be as lucky.”

 

She stepped out onto the sidewalk. Over the voice of the city, he could still make out the clicks of her heels against the pavement as she made her way through the crowd, assuming he was behind her.

 

He only stared at her retreating back, slipping his foot back into his sneaker. He even let loose a tiny laugh. She stopped and turned around. Too far away to speak to him, she gestured with her hands for him to hurry. Slowly, meeting her gaze, he straightened up, just standing still a moment to make out the pieces of her face in between the bobbeling heads of the other pedestrians. Her eyes widened with both confusion and fury. And then a flicker of something else underneath: panic. He broke their connection and looked down at his toes that were on fire, sadly shaking his head. Then, turning his back to her, he limped off in the opposite direction.

The Break Up: His POV: 250 words only. Kill me.

 

He felt her in the doorway…could see her standing there, arms crossed over her chest, feet crossed at the ankles. He didn’t need to stop his work and look over his shoulder.

 

He was suddenly aware of the tiny metal object in his pocket…feather light and weighing him down with the strength of an anchor. He didn’t want to think of it yet. Just kept on chopping…anything to keep his focus off of her suffocating disapproval.

 

The way she stared at the blade made him nervous. He instantly thought of her prescription bottle in the medicine cabinet. He hoped there was one more pill missing from it today.

 

No. They didn’t have plans tonight but he couldn’t put it off. “Just a little surprise.” He tried on a genuine smile as she looked around the kitchen at what he knew was only an attempt to disguise what they both already knew.

 

For just a moment, he lost his focus. All he saw was his knife pointed at his chest. So much for her taking her meds today.

 

This is why came here tonight…unannounced…afraid otherwise that he might change his mind. These moments were the reason.

 

He knew exactly what she wanted. Gladly, almost giddy, he fumbled through his pocket, fingertips connecting with the key. As heavy as it was for him to carry, it landed softly, silently in her palm.

 

Letting himself out, he thought everything went much better than he had imagined it would…aside from a little knife wielding.

A Hic-Up

The sitter bailed on me this week. No therapy last Tuesday. And I had a lot of questions, too. Ones that I will probably not remember for next Tuesday. My short term memory is shit these days. But I could tell you my first grade teacher’s name…I think.

Questions like: why, since I’ve been home, do I feel like someone has died? Was it me…that someone? And…how come the meds just seem to be taking the edge off of things and that’s it? Have I been off and on them so long that they don’t work the way they should anymore?

Anyway, that’s enough of that. I forgot to mention that in our spare time in therapy together, Jane and I like to make fun of Americans who are afraid of  the DREADED Socialism. What morons. The two of us have been all over the world and it seems to be working just fine. Yes. When we’re done talking about me, we make fun of others. And I pay for it….literally.

Here’s another writing assignment: The Break Up…from the girlfriend’s point of view. I have to write a second one (250 words or less) from the stupid boyfriend’s pov, too. Haven’t gotten around to that one yet. So have it:

The door was unlocked. She closed her eyes. He was there. Shutting the door behind her, she took a whiff. Shit. He was making dinner. Terrible timing. She slipped out of her heels; gliding toward the kitchen.

 

Maybe not tonight. 

 

She saw the back of him as she stood in the kitchen doorway; chopping methodically, measuring exactly, humming to himself.

 

No, definitely tonight, she decided. She cleared her throat. She didn’t want to startle him. No need for him to lose a finger. 

 

She felt his smile. How proud he was proving himself. She was beside him now.

 

“Were we seeing each other tonight?” She saw herself in the blade of the knife as he chopped away…a veil of frustration covering her face. All he had to do was look.

 

“Just a little surprise.”

 

She realized the room: lit candles on the table. In the cupboard his coffee mug, his vitamins. The walls were up against her.

 

Chop, clink, scrape.

She snatched the blade from his hands.

 

“Stop.” She pointed it at his chest. 

“Stop all of this!” And her arms waved all around her-knife still in hand. He backed away.

 

She blew out the candles; pointed the knife back at his chest.

 

“The key.”

Silence.

“The key to the apartment. Now.”   

 

He threw it across the room and she caught it, waving the knife in the direction of the door. It slammed shut behind him and the walls pulled themselves outward to make space for her again.

Petra at the Post Office

So. My Fiction Class Instructor gave us the “place” of where a short plot should take place. I cannot tell you how much I hate this. I don’t like being told where my stories should take place. And now, it has to take place in a post office? Of all places?

So here’s some background info on my Petra: She’s a Russian Mail Order Bride and she wants out. her husband is wealthy, abusive and homosexual. Therefore, she is a beard and will never have children or happiness…etc, etc etc

Now she’s at the post office:

Petra was permitted out of the pent house once a day, and was expected to be back in place there no later than 4:30pm. She planned her days carefully, specifically, down to the smallest detail.

 

Once again, this day, Petra planned her time out of the house with care. It was a small trip and would take no longer than a half hour. She soon found herself shaking the rain from her Burberry umbrella in the entrance way of the post office. Her dark hair remained in place and completely dry at the nape of her neck. She leaned her umbrella in the corner, her eyes adjusting to the fluorescent lights and their nauseating reflection off of the linoleum floor. She reflected for a minute on how orderly everything was. Everything seemed scrubbed clean and in its place — just like a hospital. Except death did not loiter in a post office.

 

She slid each hand into a pocket of her rain coat as she stared at the shiny mail slot carved into the white wall in front of her, pulling a letter out of each. Exact same envelopes, same address in Russia. She needed stamps.

 

“That’s eighty two cents….” Tap tap tap ….The woman behind the counter and her shiny finger nail kept time with the rain. And then a crash, after a flash of blue light. “Some storm, huh?” Tap, tap, tap.

 

Petra fished through her bag for some extra change. “Excuse me?” She did not look up from her search, trying to conceal some of her embarrassment.

 

“I said. some. storm. Huh?” 

 

Petra turned her head back to the doors in time to catch another flash of light. She shuddered and turned back before the thunder hit.

 

“Yes…is quite, uh..big storm today.” Finally, eighty two cents found. She pushed it across the counter and slid her stamps into her palm, making her way for the mail slot.

 

“Foreigners.” The woman behind the counter muttered the word behind her teeth. Petra pretended not to hear. Always pretended.

 

Now, with each letter stamped and in a hand, which one to send? Both were a request…a plea: one for her rescue, possibly under the cover of darkness, and the other for the assassination of her husband. There was no telling them a part.

 

She closed her eyes, reached out both hands toward the mail slot and let the letter from her left hand slip from her fingers and into the shiny hole in the wall. She peeked through and found that it had landed safely in the mail bin.

 

Petrareturned to her Burberry umbrella leaning in the corner near the doors, shook it open at the same time pushing the glass door open with her heel, returning to the rain. With an absent minded gesture, like flicking a mosquito from her skin, she let the second letter flutter into the garbage bin stationed outside the post office entrance.

In lieu of a real blog. I introduce you to Petra.