The young guy at the bus station, he loved his post office. Opened ’til five, he said. Sweet frizzy-haired woman sold him stamps and gave him free packaging.
Uh-huh, I said, looking down the road, watching for the number 30 driven by that sweet little red head.
The young fella wouldn’t stop going on about the birthday cards, the PO boxes, the self-service stamp machines.
Sounds nice, said I.
This must blow your mind, Grandpa, he says, sounding like one of them Frenchmen.
My post office sells white lime, I tells him. Now shut the hell up. Silence filled the air.