A man walked to the post office to mail a letter. Upon arriving at the red brick facade of the rectangle office building, the man heard his name called.
“Roger”, sounded off inside his head, but maybe from beyond the door ahead of him.
Roger approached the door. Stepping carefully along the cobblestone path, he took particular care to move perfectly exactly, his black shiny shoes. The white closed door ahead, though locked, pressed open as he stepped inside. Bits of door fell upon his shoulders, and stung and clung to his lips. Arm throbbing, and a stinging hand accompanied shooting pains along the right side of his body.
“Roger”, he heard behind him, or further inside the darkened post office lobby. Roger lifted the weight off of his left foot, bent his right knee and spun around to place the one story building behind him. As he turned, his arms, at his sides, stretched outward to the spinning walls around him. Beneath him, the sand ground under the old tan sole of his right shoe. Roger now saw Ryan standing before him.
“The post office is closed”. Ryan said this knowing that Roger was probably recently made aware of this fact. Probably.
“Whom do you think has mailed you, or do you intend to send something yourself?”, asked Ryan, a man who looked much the same as Roger, except Ryan was clean cut with hair that fell no further than his ears. Roger had a great deal of hair which was very straight and hung as low as a tie would. These hairs seemed to spring out from different places, determined at random. It was as if his face and head had sprung leaks which leaked forever in a dark, almost ruby red or auburn colour.
Roger replied that he had intended to send a letter to him, Ryan. Roger began speaking, and with the sounds that he made, in tandem with his facial expressions, Ryan made a change in his face and seemed to follow along to Roger with a bobbing of the head and occasionally made sounds himself. However, after some time of Roger doing as he was, Ryan moved his head, as if upon the train of thought, or storyline, which Roger alone dictated, less and less.
“Roger”, Ryan said. Roger turned around and looked inside the shadowed void of the normally lively sitting lobby. Bits of door no larger than one’s hand laid about all over, among fine pieces and a dust that suggested the presence of a carpenter or hobbyist with a bandsaw.
Ryan put his hand on Rogers shoulder, inches above where the tear in the sleeve ran up to. There was a wound and pieces of wood sticking into, and stuck upon, the skin by the sweat of a man squeezing his arm in wincing pain
“You fucking obliterated that door. You’re going to have to pat for it. You’re probably going to go the hospital, aaaand what the fuck, man?”, asked Ryan with a face one would necessarily make to say that.
Roger stood for a moment. Ryan considered Roger considering his thoughts on what was aired.
“Would you like a stick of gum?”, Roger asked Ryan.
Ryan said “Yes”, and Roger released his shaking grip from the letter in the hand of his injured side. He held the small envelope with his left hand, and after having wiped off a finger that felt sure, he poked a hole into the top of the envelope marked ‘Ryan’ dragged his finger from one side to the other, to the sound of paper shredding, and produced two pieces of gum in his hand.
Roger handed Ryan a piece, and each unwrapped their eraser-like gum portion from the silvery wrapper and put them into their mouthes.
The two men chewed gum under the lamps in front of the post office. Gums flapped, and the taste of cherry was in the minds of both men for a short time. People everywhere around them slept, and in four hours the post office would officially open.