It had been days since his last letter, and even that was too long.
He paced around his anxious, increasingly manic. He stopped with a final climax of frustration, and began sweeping quickly through his apartment, desperate to keep himself busy, to distract himself.
A few tense and awkward hours later, it wasn’t enough and he had to get outside. He tried to calm himself down long enough to put on a jacket and his Canadian-style toque to brave the cold winter’s day waiting for him outside.
He rubbed his hands together as soon as the shock of the air doused him, still feeling underdressed. He hyped himself up like an eskimo going for a dip in Alaska and pushed himself through the double doors that lead into the building, and charged down the street like a madman.
The numbing cold wasn’t helping. If anything, it made him more irrational. He rubbed his hands together harder and faster, as though he were trying to start a fire. At least if he did, he’d be warmer.
He directed himself towards the post office. At least if he checked his PO Box again, the letter back might be there. He chanted the idea back to himself inwardly, as though to spur him on. If he didn’t do that, he might not believe himself.
He felt so lonely. He just wanted an answer.
A few blocks later, he arrived, and located his number once again. He turned the key; he kept it in the pocket of jeans, just in case. Anticipation might be more accurate.
“No,” said a postie behind his desk across from the boxes. “No more post than there was five hours ago. What are you waiting on that’s so important, eh? Someone special?”
He turned to the old man. “Sorry,” was his only reply. He left the post office embarrassed. Why had he done that? Was he really that desperate?
He knew the simple answer to that.
He returned to his apartment, partly wishing he had work today. He felt just pathetic. He never would have done that on a weekday.
His buzzer rang. Still recovering from the cold, hands still numb, he moved over and pressed the button absently. “Yes?” he answered.
“Post,” was the answer.
“Who is this?”
“I live down below you, number 8. I think someone got the wrong address. You’re Miles Rochester, right?”
“Yeah. Come on up.”
His heart pumped with excitement, on a high, though he hid it from the kid watching him as he greedily opened the letter. A postcard. It was from Melbourne. Strange getting a postcard from your own city.
His face fell.
Stop writing. You know who this is. People are getting suspicious.
He looked up at the kid, staring judgementally at him. “Okay. You delivered your letter, now get out.”
The teen left, mumbling angrily. I closed the door.
Taken from a prompt at Write On Edge.