Waiting to hear

Time had passed. and unlike so many cliches and fortune cookie sayings, it had not passed quickly.
The memory of him gazing at me through the dusty flecked windshield was permanently inscribed on that day.
The snow outside belied the fact that it could ever be swelteringly hot here. So hot, the sweat seems to roll in rivers down my back.
Now six months later ,the little moisture to be found in the air seemed to glaze over the numerous goosebumps on my arms.

I slipped into my coat, and reached into my gloves looking for some lost warmth.

I slowly trudged down the driveway. It stretched endlessly down to the old rusty faithful mailbox.

In what seemed to take hours I finally turned to fumble at the handle. The thick fingers of my gloves made grasping anything a very elusive task. So I risked the inevitable, slipped one hand out of it’s sanctuary, and flipped the mailbox open.

The musty smell, and taunting clang of the emptiness were all too familiar for someone who just needed relief from fear.

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