A series: (4) Letterbox

The blue sky stretched out, its paleness hinting at the frostiness of the earth below. Blinds pulled up high, minutely asymmetrical as the cords on one side had got tangled in someone’s rush to go to sleep the previous night, the 1950s-style living room became illuminated by the sun.

A baby blue, light pink and an odd shiny silver paisley pattern rolled out over the tall, throne-like armchairs that made a triangle across the front room. With a too-thick teal carpet and an over-embellished fireplace, it didn’t take much guessing to estimate the age of the home-owners.

“Kindness,” croaked Marie-anne, sat in the chair closest to the window, its back, unfortunately, to it. “That’s the word of the day. Harold!”

Her greying red-headed counterpart grumbled back, suppressing a burp, hiccuping only a bit as he fluttered his heavy lids at her. “Got it, Em.”

“Kindness,” she rasped again, holding the mini-calendar tightly as she contrasted the dictionary definition against her own. Her yellow nails were long and thick; her hands were pock-marked by liver spots. Her breath smelt heavy, incensed too much to completely erase suspicion. Her forefingers shuddered; she dropped her hands to her skirt, a means to ignore the unwanted. Her vast bosom rested on her knees, and long breaths fell from her lips, her front-left tooth resting uncomfortably on her chin. “Kindness,” she murmured again.

Harold had closed his eyes, his rough calloused hands wrapped around his great belly, bloated and protrusive after the turkey dinner they’d both inhaled. The remnants of the bird’s juicy flavouring clung onto his whiskered face but he was too old to care. He’d lick it off later when he was figuring out if a snack was in order.

He rolled his eyes inwardly, hoping she’d shut up soon. She was obsessed with that “bluuudy” dictionary calendar; his insensitivity was yet to put her off it. One of the neighbours, the fat woman with the f**kin’ daft hats had dropped it off as a gift, only God knew why.

An electrician by trade, Harold had been out of work for a little over a decade. Marie-anne had been in work for a little under one. They’d two children between them, one boy, one girl, and hadn’t seen either in almost a year. They received monthly phone updates, but love was spared in the Kinnon family and no one had kicked up a fuss about it yet.

She was still mumbling to herself and he couldn’t doze off. The sun was too brightly, streaming aggressively through the single-glazed window. He hrmph’d again, daydreaming for lack of the real thing.

Something clattered into the porch, overriding Marie-anne’s murmurings. Heavy crunches diminuendoed and a red-headed post boy was seen stumbling across the lawn to the next house. No one moved.

After a prolonged silence, Harold rolled his eyes, sighing with impact. “Do you ever bloody move?” he hissed at his little old wife, who continued to tremble, out of pathology not fear. “Exercise is good for you,” she taunted breathily.

Upon reaching the door, he had to pause. His heart was skipping to keep up with him, straining a little more each day. At some point, he knew, it would reach the limits of its capabilities, but he was determined that when that was to happen, he’d be ready for it. A practical man in his heydays, Harold had transitioned into an advocate of mind over matter as swiftly as each of his chronic illnesses had come on.

Two letters, one handwritten and one typed: the bank, most likely. A newspaper and a yellow and black advert, probably some new taxi company. Picking up the paper, he let it flop down, unfolded, for a quick glance at the headline.

Black Gothic letters aggressively claimed their position on the page. Large as they were, he struggled to take them in, his eyes a funny mix of both long- and short-sightedness. Another sigh and his glasses were out his pocket. A picture of a young girl came into focus, dull colours and heavily contrasted. She was smiling and between two of her friends, both of whom had half a face, crudely chopped away from the image.

“MISSING: Woman, twenties, did not return home.” The press are losing their creativity day by day, Harold thought, unimpressed. But before he turned the page, his eyes were drawn back to the picture. There was something about her smile that sparked something in his mind. He’d felt sure he’d seen her before, but he didn’t recognise the name. He turned the page anyway, a small bubble of unease lurking within him.