Page 4 of Love Letters to Christmas

Work is a fabulous distraction from feelings…usually.

Amelia

“If you’ll just fill out some quick paperwork, I’ll get you input as a new employee of the illustrious Whirlwind Branding,” Brian says, looking hopelessly attractive in his sweater vest. “Incoming mail arrives around two. Between now and then, we maintain internal correspondence and provide team spirit on our building rounds. But, anyway, I’ll give you more training once you’re finished giving me your social security number.”

He laughs while I settle myself down into a chair at a desk in the main sorting room, which is immaculate at a level I would not assume possible given that we seem to be the only two people here. Subtly taking in the sorting boxes, processing equipment, and filing systems all around, I keep my attention squarely off Brian and his adorable sweater vest as he hums in tune with the jangling keys on his belt loop the whole way over to a corner office with glass walls.

Just riding in Brian’s passenger seat on the way here this morning I felt out of my depth. As the suburbs where Brian lives turned into city skylines packed with towering buildings, my stomach twisted in a way I’m still trying to unravel.

My country blood was ill prepared to walk into a building with a crisp receptionist station, smile amicably at the woman manning it, and keep heading toward the elevator without stopping to exchange any gossip. Or ask about the giant shark painting behind her.

I really wanted to ask about the giant shark painting behind her, but Brian marched past with little more than a friendly wave, and I wasn’t going to lose track of him on my first day of work.

After getting here last Tuesday, Brian gave me nearly a full week to get settled in and unpack at home. I spent most of my time trying to open boxes without crying oceans, cleaning, having dinner ready when he got back from work, and forbidding myself from going into his bedroom.

One day, Thursday I think, I spent about an hour staring at the sliver offered me by his cracked door.

Needless to say, I’m very grateful it is Monday and I am starting a job that will distract me from theemotionsassociated both with leaving my parents and with living in Brian Single’s home.

A good taste of whatever my new “normal” is going to be with work added to my schedule should keep me from having too many breakdowns going forward.

Or, at least, that is my hope.

Turning to the next page of my intake paperwork, I locate a quiz, headed by the question:Do you love mail?

Do I love mail? Of course I love mail. Don’t tell me… Isthisthe reason Brian and I are the only people here on a crisp Monday morning when work started fifteen minutes ago? If we had coworkers, they should be here already, sitting with me and awaiting our fearless leader’s instruction.

I chose the desk I’m sitting at because it seemed the most unbothered when I came in. Upon closer inspection, however, all four of the desks in this main sorting room appear unbothered. Devoid of personal touches. Clean and awaiting residents.

Brian must screen all potential employees based on this quiz. And not many must pass.

That’s sad. No one appreciates mail like they should these days.

I writeWith my entire heart and soulin the space below the question.

Question number two asks,What do you love about mail?

The entire rest of the page is filled with lines for my answer, as it should be. I start with the obvious things I love about mail—it is cute and pretty—and move into the deeper things—mail is a collection of emotions and effort, littleI love you’sfrom friends and family. I wax poetic concerning how mail is a memory, gifted to us, a moment in time immortalized. I explain the dopamine that results upon receiving a package. I discuss the trust involved in sharing a page full of words with someone else, knowing that you won’t get to keep what you give away.

Mail is a blessing.

An honor.

And it really is so cute and pretty. So romantic. So adorable. Especially when it has wax seals. I love, love,lovewax seals. I get extravagant with mine and use them whenever possible. I even put them on bills. My car insurance people normally receive red seals to indicate formal correspondence, but when I was especially poor at one point, I sent a check in with a black seal. A littlewink wink, nudge nudgethat if they kept these insane rates up, they would be invited to my funeral. My collection of wax and stamps is outrageous and among the few things my parents let me keep when I packed up April 2nd because I bought every last color and melting spoon with my own money. My wax sets are trulymine.

Ah, but, anyway.

To conclude my essay,mailequalsthe best.

Once finished with the question, I’ve filled in all the lines provided on the front and back of the page, so I start decorating the rows of text and margins with tiny envelopes and heart-shaped seals—then I scream.

Taken aback, Brian—who just said my name behind me—blinks. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

I clutch my pen and exhale, “No. No, I’m sorry. I’m…jumpy.”

“I noticed.” He chuckles and offers a hand. “I was wondering if I could start processing your application while you finish up the quiz.”

“Oh, I’m done. Sorry.” Gathering the pages, before I can proofread whatever nonsense I no doubt rambled, I pass along my application and watch in stark horror as Brian skips to the last questions right in front of me.

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