Polar Regions

By Gayla Chaney

I am sleeping with a mailman. I suppose there is nothing exceptional or unique about that except that I am sleeping with him based on the fact that he is a mailman, which does not seem like a good enough reason. Still, it is the only reason I can come up with.

His name is Dick Herring, which doesn't make much difference except now I can call him something besides "the mailman." His name didn’t matter when I used to watch him walk up the sidewalk to my shop in his Postal Service gray-blue shirt and shorts to deliver mostly bills that I couldn't pay, and on one or two occasions, a postcard from my ex-husband who Dick resembles…a little. At least that's what I once thought as I sat in my shop, Alayna's Eclectic Lady, day after day, with so little to do that the mailman's arrival was a significant point in my morning.

His arrival signaled midday. After his departure I felt comfortable eating my lunch, even on the days when he arrived early, before eleven. It made no difference to me. Mailman: Time for ham and cheese. The sex came only after he had delivered his last worthless stack of impersonal notifications and flyers on the day I was closing up shop, literally.

That day, when he walked into my shop, the bell over the door didn't ring because I had already taken it down. Dick didn't notice the absence of a ringing bell. He claims nothing seemed the least bit unusual to him. Oh sure, he admits catching a glimpse of the 'Going Out of Business Sale' sign on the display window, but he says that he didn't give it much thought. Now that I know Dick better, I believe every word he says.

I seduced Dick, which was a hell of a lot more difficult than I had imagined it would be. Watching him day after day, I pictured, just for fun, a fantasy to give me momentary relief from the reality of my failing business; a brief escape from the awful realization that my share of the divorce settlement was evaporating while I watched soap operas in a dying dress shop into which I had deposited every last cent.

Undressing Dick in my mind offered an amusing distraction while I undressed the mannequins on display. It turned out that the mannequins were more entertaining. But I couldn't have known that. After three glasses of wine and Dick's timely arrival that last Thursday before I returned the shop keys to the landlord and walked out the front door forever, I took a chance at making the shop produce just one profitable day for me. If he had rejected my advances, I figured I'd never have to see him again. It's a big enough city to avoid one mailman for a lifetime. That thought, coupled with the wine, gave me courage to proceed.

Dick flatly states he didn't notice I was braless and that he didn't have a clue of what was up until I pulled down the door shade. This guy would say anything, despite how insulting. "Honestly, I was thinking about lunch. When you asked me if I'd like a glass of wine, I thought you were crazy. It was only 11:45 in the morning, and I was on the job. When you locked the front door and put the 'CLOSED' sign up, I got kind of scared.'

Yes, I'm the frightening type. Five foot four, one hundred twelve pounds of terrifying woman. Oh well, maybe I am more formidable than I realize. Men like Dick may scare easily, or perhaps they prefer their lives come packaged in individual boxes labeled "work time," "play time," "sleep." It’s also possible I am rusty at seduction, weak at innuendo, or guilty of watching too many soap operas where raunchy women prey on unsuspecting, gullible men, seducing them with ease.

Dick told me that he would like to meet Ben, my ex-husband, should Ben ever come for a visit. I laughed, responding sarcastically with something like, "You two have so much in common," to which Dick grinned, assuming I meant something entirely different.

Archives

Polar Regions

By Gayla Chaney