I step out of my car. Piece of crap red two door sedan. "It's like one of those fancy sport cars you always wanted!" my parents had said. From the trunk I remove the package. I don't quite remember what's in it. Something for my cousin in Tallahassee. It's shoe box sized, but I wouldn't send her shoes for her birthday. Probably something cheap she'll never use.
On the way in to the post office a black man in his mid-fifties holds the door open for me. He wears thin eyeglasses, and one of those Rastafarian style hats. He smells heavily of cigarette smoke. Twenty years ago, I'm sure he wore the same outfit, but smelled of a different kind of smoke.
Inside there is only one person waiting on line. She's a woman, absolutely gorgeous. No more than 22 years of age with beautiful flowing blonde hair. She's a little overdressed for the occasion. She wears a skirt that's much too short. An inch or two more and I would be one of the luckiest men on earth. I consider bending down to tie my shoe, but that would be too obvious. Her shirt is just a little too tight, causing her already large chest to explode out of the shirt. I know I'm staring, and so does she. But with a body like that, wearing the clothes she is wearing, I don't think she'd be surprised.
What on earth is she doing at the post office looking like that? It's Tuesday, it's 3:30. No one dresses like that on a Tuesday at 3:30. Maybe she's foreign, and doesn't know any better. Or she could be a model, who came into town for an audition, and all she packed was this outfit and a couple of pairs of panties.
I look at a poster about the US census to forget about this image.
And what is she mailing out? In her hand she has just a small envelope. Surely it would fit in a mailbox. What is she doing here at the post office?
There seems to be some kind of hold up with the customer at the counter. It can't hurt if I do bend down to tie my shoes. I do, and slowly take a peak around the hem of her skirt. No luck, but just imagining what could be there gets me excited.
My mind is racing now. Who are you and why do you tease me with your sexiness? She turns around to look up at the clock. It's by now 3:38. I really need to be going. I do something I've never done before. I take a pen from the counter, and a mailing slip, and carefully write my phone number on it. Folding it over twice, I hand the note to the woman and take my leave.
In the car I think about the audacity of what I've just done. How rude and presumptuous it was of me to think I could ever be with someone like her. She has a boyfriend! Probably married! But what if she calls?
In the passenger seat sits the package for my cousin in Tallahassee. It'll have to wait; I'm rushing home to prepare for my date with the queen.