I had been waiting in line for 45 minutes when he walked into the post-office. He came slowly through the door, mumbling about something and chewing on a piece of straw at the same time. His eyes locked on the cement tiles.
His silhouette is a tall and slender shape of a man. A walking bean stalk with a guitar strung over his shoulder. It’s more dense than his bones. His crooked stride balances the weight of his instrument, leaning from side to side.
He was wearing a leather-bound hat from Argentina. It lay crooked on his head. In fact, almost everything about him was a little crooked. The hat was decorated with a pheasant’s feather. I imagine that he caught it himself. A crooked hat to match the crooked grin peering underneath his shadowed face. I’m staring. He meets my gaze as he moves closer to the queue. The man straightens his hat. That was the first time I saw his face. Blue eyes dreaming of the sea.
He stops, still looking at me. He reaches in his back pocket and pulls out an envelope. He puts it in his mouth while he fumbles around in his guitar case for a pen. He scribbled an address on the envelope in black ink, sealing it with those same mumbling lips. He knew it by heart. I wonder who he’s writing to. Surely he’s sending kisses to a good-looking woman living too far away.. I wonder if he sings her songs.
He whistles a familiar tune as he passes me. “Delia’s gone. Another round. Delia’s gone.” He watches me out of the corner of his eye as he moves to the back of the line.
“Next,” mumbles the woman behind the counter. I look in front of me to find that the whole line has moved.
“Young lady, you’re next,” she lets out sigh. She looks exhausted. Poor woman. I send a letter to my mother and scurry out the door. “That’s the last time I’ll ever see that man,” I said.
The sun is hot. I look in my pack of cigarettes. Last one. “Shit.”
I stop in the middle of the sidewalk, rummaging around in my purse for a box of matches. Once I find them, I find them empty.
I look up at the sky. “Shit.” Then I feel a tap on my shoulder.
“Can I help you with that, little lady?” He lights my cigarette with the strike of his match.
“My name is Will.”
“Nice to meet you, Will.”