Dear lovers, I apologize for leaving you up-dateless for so long. Where have I been you ask? Well, the unofficial answer is I drowned. The forecast for Vancouver this past month has called for rain with a 90% chance of more rain. Officially, I had a bad case of writer’s block. Rendered creatively impotent by one grey sky after another, I surrendered myself to living in someone else’s dream. That was until eleven-eighteen this morning, however, when I returned to my own.
For those of you who have been dying for an update on my love affair with the mailman: this is it.
Since my last transcripted encounter with Il Postino, I have seen him not once or twice, but three times.
The first time was approximately four weeks ago, when he called from the lobby to inform me he had something with my name on it. Practically tumbling down three flights of stairs to pick up what he was putting down, I was disenchanted when he passed me the envelope and said, “It looks like you got something here from your mom.” Feeling icky and gross about getting myself all worked up just to receive a box from my mother, I suppressed the urge to gouge my eyes out and thanked him humbly before returning to my apartment.
Dear David Duchovny...The second time was ten days ago. My father was in town visiting for the weekend, and it just so happened that we walked in to the apartment block just as the postman was making his rounds. Waiting for the elevator, I watched as he sorted each piece of mail - with the utmost care and precision - into its wanting slot. Catching my eye lock with his, he paused briefly to casually say “You’re 605 right” to which I urgently replied, “Am I ever.” Checking to see if he had anything for me (talk about full service) I wished him adieu as the elevator door opened in front of me. Stepping inside, it quickly occurred to me that I had completely forgotten about my father who was standing right next to me the entire time. Nervously chuckling, as the elevator went up, I proceeded to give him this half-baked explanation about how Canada Post is much friendlier on the West Coast.
The third time was at the aforementioned hour and minute this a.m. In the midst of washing dishes, I was interrupted by an unexpected wrap at my door. Suspecting it was him, my eyes panicked at the fact I was not ready. On the first knock, I debated opening up the door adorned in my yellow latex gloves. How domestic he would think, a man who can cook and clean up afterwards. But then on the second knock, I recalled my old strategy. Grabbing a rocks glass from the cupboard, I whipped open the refrigerator promptly followed by the freezer to discover that not only did I not have apple juice I also did not have ice. My plan foiled, I abandoned the glass, splashed some dish water in my hair and opened the front door just before he started to turn around.
Standing two feet from my lips and seven large strides from sweeping me off my feet and carrying me into bed, there was no doubt it was him: il postino. Smiling, he handed me the package and seduced me with “hello.” Taking it from his grasp, I made sure to accidentally graze my fingers against his own. Rough and no-doubt scarred from years of paper-cuts (the danger of the job) I noted the contrast between his hand and mine. While his skin was damaged proof of day-after-day of hard work, mine was an excellent example of a proper manicure. Returning my gaze back to his, my mind tuned-out and in to its very own episode of The Redhead Diaries.
“Did you want to come in for a cup of coffee?” says Rugged Fox, opening the front door to his apartment wider.
“I … I … I don’t know if I have time” replies il postino, the rainwater dripping down from his hair and trickling on to his perfectly-defined chest.
“It’s pouring outside,” seduces Rugged Fox, “you look like you could use something to warm you up.”
The postman crosses the threshold into Rugged’s lonesome apartment, the door swinging shut behind him. It is apparent the Fox has sealed the deal, or in this case, envelope.
Cut two commercial breaks later and you will have to start paying to read this blog.
Returning back to what actually happened - after all was signed, sealed and delivered - I watched as he left and then shut the door behind him. Turning around, I ripped open the package left in my hand and sorted through the unopened envelopes sent from home. Tossing them on to my bed, I paused briefly to watch the rain fall outside and then returned to the dishes waiting for me in the kitchen sink.