Waiting for the Letter

by Kaloyan Il

I'm hanging up my telephone receiver. I've just learned that she has sent me a letter. How excited I am! Beauty surrounds me. And the reason is that I'm guessing about the letter's content. But to hold the letter and to read it again and again—it's a different thing.

First day—it sounds ridiculous, hoping to be made happy so early. But who knows? There is a small chance a DHL courier wearing a uniform will hand me the letter, demanding proof I am the intended receiver. Later, it becomes obvious that today our street won't be visited by the famous delivery company. And if I think one more time about the telephone conversation I'll find she didn't mention anything about DHL. OK, never mind. It was just a fancy opportunity.

Second day—I know today is early too, but I'm waiting. Perhaps hoping for an unusual expediency on the part of the Post Company. And what about the "PAR AVION" stamp on the letter? That's why I'm still waiting today. But what am I talking about? What "PAR AVION" to our town am I dreaming about? And just for me? Hey, wait a minute. You don't have to joke with the air! But perhaps the sender has used a carrier pigeon. Good idea to put a small handful of grain on my balcony to orientate it towards my place. It would be a pity if it lost the way.

There is no letter at all at the end of the day. That was expected, but my heart can't wait.

Third day—nothing. Gr-r-r, where is this damned letter! And why is it late! Just be patient!

Fifth and sixth days—Saturday and Sunday means two off-days for the Post Company.

Seventh day—nothing. What's going on! Maybe something is happening to me. OK, let's think like a philosopher:  "Do I exist at all, and am I completely sure about it?  Was the telephone call I made eight days ago a reality? And even if this statement is true, did we talk of anything like a letter? Do my senses lie to me that just eight days has passed since then? Is this information correct?"  Oh, what foolishness! But why doesn't my letter arrive?

Eighth day—nothing again. I feel nervous and hot-tempered. I've lost my trust in the Post Company and I now hope my letter will be sent with a marathon-man, the same way they have done it in wartime. I expect such a guy will knock on my front door, expiring, and hand me the rolled paper (the letter). Let's prepare some bread and some salt—a native custom—to meet strangers.

Ninth day—the postman is coming at last. I've waited him for ages. But ... the letter is for my neighbor. I can't stand waiting any more. I think I will do something bad to the postman. Take it easy—he is not guilty in this case.

Tenth day—guess—nothing. I'm really nervous. Provoking scandals with everyone around me. I call the sender and, screaming, ask her why she dares to send me a non-arriving letter.

Eleventh day—nothing. Who cares! Apathy.

Twelfth and thirteenth days—again, off-days for my favorite Post company. Melancholy.

Fourteenth day—the letter's just arrived. Apathy again. Nothing affects me any more. Who cares that the letter consists of the confessions of an unnamed girl. It's too late for me after I-don't-remember-how-many days.

Next day. I'm going to buy a fax machine. I leave the old paper letters to history.

Unexciting modern times!

Copyright © Kaloyan Il 2003