My Dream Woman Handles Packages With Care

I wrote this down as an idea and a concept sketch -- not for the sake of publishing, so the introduction is pretty by the book, so to speak. As I got more comfortable with what I was writing you can tell, and I sink a bit more naturally into the bit. Just figured it needed a disclaimer, as does all of my work:

I’m trudging up the stairs from the garage to my second floor apartment. It’s been a long, hard, arduous day of classes I didn’t want to go to and listening to lectures I didn’t want to hear. As I turn the corner of the basement and come up the stairs to the first floor landing, a familiar and welcome sight awaits me. It’s the post-woman, and she’s filling our boxes with all kinds of gifts and wonderous mysteries in 3”x11” envelopes. Seeing as how I’ve just completed a long day of working hard myself, I can empathize with this little miracle worker. Quaint and quietly, she sincerely and carefully places each package in their respective slots. I couldn’t even begin to imagine doing something so monotonous and tedious without frequently committing embarrassing errors. What strikes me the most is the sudden realization that, after a semester and a half of seeing this woman almost daily, I have yet to express my thanks for her dedication.

“That’s some hard work you’re doing there” I offer after two full minutes of standing there in silence. She hadn’t noticed me.

Wiping her brow with a tired forearm, she wrinkles her nose and half-pants a confused “’Scuse me?”

It was wheezy and raw, as if she was made from the Earth itself.

“I said that’s some hard work you’re doing there. I can’t imagine ever doing that job.”

Changing her body language, the post woman drops her crate of envelopes and packages and faces me, hands on her hips.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?”

“I-I’m sorry??”, I stammer helplessly.

“You think you’re something special huh? Just ‘cuz you live in this nice, new complex. Mommy and Daddy paying your bills and everything. Smartass. You think you’re gunna be something special in your business suit and little cubicle making them 6 figures!? You wouldn’t last a day in this work!”

I’m floored, to say the least. “I-I know..th-that’s what I was trying to--”

“Fuck you.” She spits.

The only thing I can do is slowly back into the stairwell. I do.

“…have a good day.” I manage to half-whisper.

I get a middle finger and one more profanity-laced farewell for good measure.

I should get some sleep.