I began ordering things I did not want, and often did not need. Small things, like books that I actually had interest in reading, but could have easily purchased at the used bookstore just a few blocks down. I ordered pamphlets from universities that I could have been interested in learning more about even though I was currently continuing my education elsewhere. I ordered a pair of glasses to replace the pair I currently wore, which had no major scratches, dents, or damages of any kind. I ordered a T-shirt that I was pretty sure would not fit me and waited each day for the arrival of all these things.
It was never about the books. Or glasses. I threw the pamphlets away without looking at them and spent several minutes encased in guilt of wasted paper and postage. It was not about the accumulation of things that did exactly that—accumulate. My motivation became the box. The small square box with my last name decorating the front in thick black marker and the letter B signifying my apartment status. I wanted to fill up my mailbox.
When I moved into my tiny studio apartment eight months ago, I was on my last trip up the flight of stairs when I first saw her. She had polyester blue skin with stripes down the side. Or, it appeared to be her skin since the fabric squeezed her limbs in such a way there seemed to be no separation. She had on a black and blue hat and her abbreviated auburn hair peeked out from the sides. I wanted to smile at her. No. I wanted to lift her body above the railing and watch her letters fly below. I wanted to feel the slightly itchy fibers from her uniform against my knees and shoulders. I wanted to reach my tongue into her mouth and lick her taste buds as though they were miniature stamps in need of adhesion. I wanted to dig into her body as though it were a package that I had been waiting weeks to arrive. Then, I would slowly unravel her layers like hard-to-detach masking tape.
She was dropping off a small box, leaning it against the door next to mine. She turned toward me for just a moment and I was able to catalogue her eyes as slightly hazel with a maroon undertone. Her lashes were astounding. So thick, they appeared like a sheet of black ice over her lids. I imagined a weight of at least fifteen pounds pushing down against her upper cheek every time she blinked. It was incredible.
I reluctantly let out some words, amidst my extreme nervousness.
“Hi, I just moved in. Gosh, these boxes are heavy. Books. I’ve got so many books. This is my third apartment in less than a year. It’s not like I can’t handle commitment. Or, that I’m looking for one. (Stop talking) I live alone. No…other half. Just me. Yup. That’s my name on the mailbox. I forwarded my mail about a week ago, so maybe I’ll have something soon. Is this your regular route? I go to the university just a few blocks down. I’m an untraditional student. Older than the others. Not old, but old enough, you know? (Please, shut up.) How long have you been…a postal worker? I hesitate because I never know the correct language. Mail man. Woman. Letter carrier. Though, sometimes you carry packages, right? I order a lot. So…don’t worry about losing your job. I’ll keep you in business. (Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!) I’m a writer, so I’m always writing letters. I love stamps! (Tongue, please fall out of my mouth). I used to collect them. I wonder where they all went. Well, you must be busy. It was nice…meeting you. I’m Lucy.” (Breathe).
“Hi, Lucy. I’m Sal. The previous tenant never used to pick up his mail. Just stockpiled up. Had no respect for paper, that one. Glad to see some new blood in this place—especially someone who appreciates the art of mail delivery.” She winked.
“Oh, well, I pick up my mail everyday. (Braggart) And I’m usually here. You should just…knock because I can offer you tea or a beer. No wait, you probably can’t drink on the job. Alcohol, not tea, of course. (Why are you talking?) I bake! So, there is always something fresh out of the oven. No pressure or anything.”
“Okay, well, nice meeting you Lucy. I better get going.”
I watched Sal walk away. Her wide hips removed every nail holding in the wood of the stairs. It was as though the nails grew erections from her scent and posture, pushing them out of the stained lumber. My breath felt like a pair hands inside my throat, choaking me. I opened the door to my apartment and walked inside.
Boxes and bags littered my floor. There was no bed, yet. My old mattress belonged to my previous roommate and she decided she wanted to sell it. I began romanticizing a giant improvised bed created with blankets and pillows placed on the floor. There was a small nook where it would fit perfectly, so I gathered up my sheets and thick comforter and began creating a bed. I positioned myself between pillows and sheets and stared at the stucco ceiling. The more I stared, the more the patterns began to look a lot like Sal. My eyes widened and adjusted its internal focus lens. It felt like cloud-gazing—searching for animals or ex-girlfriends in the sky. There was no color, just texture. My ceiling was beginning to turn me on. I had nowhere to go. I deserved a break from lifting and putting things away. I needed to relax.
I thought about my postal worker. My mail carrier. The deliverer of carefully weighed letters and important documents. She was going to touch my electricity bill. Her crooked fingernails—bent and rigid from strong teeth gnawing their length away—would slide across my phone bill. Maybe a careless friend will forget to lick the entire envelope closed and before placing it in my mailbox, Sal will lap her tongue against the corners to seal it. As I open it, I will inhale her last meal simmered in her saliva.
My pussy changed shape into a four-cornered box with a slot big enough for a magazine to slide through. My fingers moved inside me like letters or birthday cards containing money. All I could think about was Sal in her uniform, slipping my mail inside me.
“Wait,” I'll interrupt. “I’m just not sure how much I can take in.”
“Well, let me try a different angle,” she’ll suggest.
Sal will saunter around me and guide her lips over mine. Her mouth will be heated as though shrink-wrapping the rest of me beneath her. Her body will push against mine.
“Take off your uniform,” I’ll demand. “I want to taste the flavor of your skin. I want to make a meal from the cum you produce. Your belly, a platter I promise to lick clean.”
It will be dark. Or, I imagine it will be. All I'll hear are the snaps of buttons unmerging and metal unclasping, the strain of threads hitting the floor as she removes her layers. I'll squint my eyes to take in the shadows of her nude body—the curves of her waist winding inward, her large breasts moving with each inhalation. Sal’s erect nipples will act as a compass begging for hands to hold them. I'll measure the length of her legs with my eyes. They are long and thick. She is long and thick.
Sal will whisper postage amounts into my ear as she fucks me with three fingers, curved and itching their way into me. She'll gain speed and diameter, adding one more. I will gasp, just as she yells:
“Certified mail, two seventy!”
Her fingers suddenly became mine. I opened my eyes and realized the stucco Sal was just dots on the ceiling. Textured tear-drops or popcorn kernels. My cunt dripped down my thigh and onto my sheets and surrounding pillows. I brought my fingers to my lips and tasted my fantasy marinating my knuckles and fingernails.
It was Saturday and I'd have to wait until Monday to see her again. In the flesh, this time. I slowly got up and moved toward my computer. I shopped. Two books. A toaster oven. A pair of pants that probably wouldn't fit. Some bed sheets. A few more pillows. Nothing I needed, of course. Just something to bring her closer to me.
Originally published February 2009