THE MAIL. RIGINAL.
She lay there, irritated, as some women do on occasion when something like a nettle of regret, unsettled conscious, unresolved remnants of parting sorrow do- to a sensitive woman. The nettle scratches the subconscious waiting fretfully,impatiently, for its frame of sleep to enable it to paint obscure. Brush a picture, a patchwork of uncontrollable deep sleep thought.The reward a deep slumber initiates. She couldn't sleep because of the urge. Rather like a tap that drips monotonously like a water metronome. Irritating. Constant. Unrelenting. She heard the same monotonous whistle from John, the elderly postman. His worn putt putt putting steed,the squeak of brakes, shuffled clang lid of mail She didn't mind so much normally, but the nettle, the tap, combined with the piercing whistle, off putting putt putt- this particular morning- made her leap out of bed. Maybe, it was just 'the urge' some women get. Just the urge between restlessness, and the urge alone?
She grabbed her robe, didn't tie it. Stretched a honed thigh, launched herself provocatively upwards from the bed. Went to the bathroom, wrenched the offending tap, the washer responded,split, water gushed . She whirled in passionate anger...a dangerous combination. Padded to the front door. Wrenched it open. Her robe fell away. She felt no embarrassment. It was the urge that took precedence. "Will you shut the f.....ck up! I'm trying to get some sleep...!" She stared at the young muscular mailman. Screamed. Recovered. "Will you stop staring at me i want the male...NOW!" "He grinned, is it that urge..." She wrapped her legs around his torso,"YES!" Yes! it damn well is..."
The Mail center manager didn't look up at the blushing young mailman. Transfixed by the umpteenth 'late report' excuse he was reading. He ran his hand over his sweating bald head. "Are you telling me young man..." he loosened his tie. "That every morning for the past six weeks, your missus whom you have been married to for some six years, makes...ummm forces you to live out this...this...her 'fantasy', every morning?" "Yes sir..." sorrowful look..."every darn morning sir." "Are you kidding me sonny Jim?"
The young mailman reached into his pocket, placed a handful of split tap washers on the manager's polished desk.
Word travels fast round the mail center,at least a lot faster than the mail, as we all know.
The anchor Newswoman at make-up, read the note,frowned, discreet giggle. 3...2...1..."You're on Liz..." Liz hiccuped, "excuse me...in a bizzare twist, the city's mail branch has been closed due to its members turning up... late. Hardware stores have run out of washers. The mail center manager who promised us an exclusive interview, is running late. Informed our roving reporter he had something urgent on his doorstep. No complaints have been registered from the male branch. Union officials are presently voting on extended hours which will enable a resolution of agreement to be reached. In the meantime, in between time, all deliveries will be on hold until a fantasy is reached! Over a tap wrenching dance. Tomorrow will be sunny, with an early morning missed. That's all and may your mail arrive on time, self ad dressed. :>)