Page 5 of Love Letters to Christmas

He skims the lines, then sniffs and wipes a tear from his eye. “Welcome aboard, A-mail-ia. May you stay with us here in the mailroom at Whirlwind Branding indefinitely.”

“Indefinitely?”

He turns on his heel, raising my application while he strides back to his office. “Also known as forever.”

Forever.

My gaze skates across the pristine sorting boxes and tall filing cabinets before returning to the desk I’ve claimed. “Forever,” I whisper down at the cherrywood as Brian enters the glass box that is his office. Peace overwhelms me at the idea of belonging somewhere—anywhere—forever.

So I smile.

Mail comes in. We process the mail. We sort the mail. We put the mail in our little bag or on our little cart. We deliver the mail. We pick up the mail. We process the mail again. We sort the mail some more. We deliver it.

And then also, amid all that, we spread joy.

Everywhere Brian goes, he sparks laughter and smiles. It’sjust like high school, minus the part where all the women are in love with him. Which is, shall I say, a refreshing relief.

I wasn’t quite sure what I’d do if I had to live through another round of watching other women more confident and bold than I am hand him love letters while I keep all of mine in a box under my bed. Signed, sealed…subdued.

These elegant and mature business women have husbands and lives in this sparkling city. Their affections do not swirl around my Brian. Some of them barely seem to tolerate him, which I can’t understand, but maybe some things in life are meant to be mysteries.

A grunt responds to Brian’s chipper chorus of knocks on a corner office door in the graphics department, so he pushes inside, pink envelope lifted high. “Letter for you, Frank, from your doting husband.”

A woman with her head on her desk groans and cocks a frown at us, petite nose scrunching on her round face beneath Wayfarer glasses. Then she mutters, “Curse you, Brian.”

Brian flashes his teeth in a bright smile. “I’m sure I have no idea why you’d say such a mean thing.”

Snuffing, Frank snatches the envelope from Brian’s fingers and slouches, jutting a lip as she opens it. “Dinner tonight is Chicken Francese with roast potatoes and a Caesar salad. I miss you dearly, and my life is empty without your shining light. Come home soon because if you work late, I will drown myself in my own tears of agony and loneliness.” Dry, she smacks the poor letter against her desk and tosses it onto an all-in-one drawing table beside her monitor set up. “That could have been a text.” Her eyes narrow. “Icouldbe texting my dear Normie right now while I suffer beneath the weight of ungodly deadlines. Instead, he’s opting for communication that takes two business days to get here.”

“You wound me. Of course I let Norman drop his letters offwith me personally and deliver them day-of.” Brian sets a hand to his heart, and I mimic the motion, also wounded, in solidarity.

“Tonight I’m telling my husband that—actually—hedoesn’tneed to send letters to appease you anymore since you’ve developed something like a normal human relationship with mail.”

Brian’s lip juts. “Norman is smarter than to ever believe such a horrible, horrible lie.”

Frank rolls her eyes skyward and pushes her square eyeglass frames up so she can rub her eyes. “Fine, then I’m telling him if he doesn’t stop this nonsense, I’m counting it as cheating on me with you and will have no choice but to divorce him.”

Brian scoffs, tossing a flippant hand in the air. Plainly, like a teenage girl from a tween movie, he says, “As if.”

Frank stares at Brian, and Brian stares at Frank.

After a while, Frank dissolves back onto her desk. “Fine. I wouldneversay such a thing to my dear sweet Normie.” Frank’s lips pucker as she mumbles, “I just want to go home. Receiving letters makes me feel like a soldier at war. I’m in the trenches. Life is suffering.” Her head tilts, and she seems to see me for the first time. “Who’s the newbie?”

Brian flourishes. “Amelia, meet Frank. Frank, meet Amelia Christmas.”

“Charmed,” Frank drawls. “Run while you still can. Brian’s nuts. He sings to the mail.”

I know. I know he does. He always has. It’sbeautiful. Like an angel has blessed my eardrums with the purest of sounds.

Brian rolls his eyes toward me, and a glint of delight lights in them as he says, “We can sing together.”

Duets…with…Brian.

Heat erupts in my cheeks.

“Oh,” Frank curses, “no. There’s two of them…”

Smug, Brian grips his mail bag strap and sticks his nose inthe air. “Anyway, glad we cleared that up. Come now, A-mail-ia. Let’s go see Will; he appreciates me.”

---