Rhys Tranter

By TNV, July 2, 2009

The Envelope

Arriving two minutes late for work, a man quietly closes his office door behind him. There are several things to do, so he sets himself to task quickly and without fuss: he shakes his umbrella thoroughly before placing it in its stand, takes off his damp, woolen coat, and opens the blinds to a murky sky.

With resolve, the man finally sits down at his desk and begins the business of his day-to-day routine. There are things to be done, after all, and he is the one to do them; it is a small satisfaction, to be sure, but the one stable thing in his life, securing all other things. There are three piles on the man’s desk: documents, envelopes, and miscellaneous memos. Of all of these, only the envelopes are new. The two other piles remain as they were left, late last night.

The man picks up the envelopes, and pulls free the elastic band holding them together. There are no parcels today. Each envelope varies in size, and the man notices slight alterations in weight between them. He assesses the complete collection before deciding which one to open first when there is something that strikes him as odd. Printed carefully in small print, the man sees his name written in a hand that he recognizes. There is a moment of calm, before a moment of anxiety. The return address does not include a name, but the man already knows it. She has finally contacted him.

The man stops, places the other envelopes on the desk and turns the one remaining over in his hands. He is convinced that he can smell lavender, but it is in all likelihood a trick of nostalgia. He is suddenly struck with an impatience to tear the envelope open and swallow its contents whole, but resists for a moment or two, as though unsure of his next step. Taking another look at the postmark, the address, and finally the return address to ensure there is no mistake he drops it into the waste paper basket. He then returns his attention to the envelopes on the desk, safe in the knowledge there shall soon be other papers to bury it.

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Rhys Tranter writes about literature, film, philosophy and more at his blog. He lives in Penarth, Wales.

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