Page 3 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 the emotions associated 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… Is this the 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 write With my entire heart and soul in 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, little I love you’s from 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, love wax 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 little wink wink, nudge nudge that 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 truly mine .

Ah, but, anyway.

To conclude my essay, mail equals the 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.

He skims the lines, then sniffs and wipes a tear from his eye. “Welcome aboard, A-mail-ia. May you stay with us here in the mailroom at Whirlwind Branding indefinitely.”

“Indefinitely?”

He turns on his heel, raising my application while he strides back to his office. “Also known as forever.”

Forever .

My gaze skates across the pristine sorting boxes and tall filing cabinets before returning to the desk I’ve claimed. “Forever,” I whisper down at the cherrywood as Brian enters the glass box that is his office. Peace overwhelms me at the idea of belonging somewhere—anywhere— forever .

So I smile.

Mail comes in. We process the mail. We sort the mail. We put the mail in our little bag or on our little cart. We deliver the mail. We pick up the mail. We process the mail again. We sort the mail some more. We deliver it.

And then also, amid all that, we spread joy.

Everywhere Brian goes, he sparks laughter and smiles. It’s just like high school, minus the part where all the women are in love with him. Which is, shall I say, a refreshing relief.

I wasn’t quite sure what I’d do if I had to live through another round of watching other women more confident and bold than I am hand him love letters while I keep all of mine in a box under my bed. Signed, sealed…subdued.

These elegant and mature business women have husbands and lives in this sparkling city. Their affections do not swirl around my Brian. Some of them barely seem to tolerate him, which I can’t understand, but maybe some things in life are meant to be mysteries.

A grunt responds to Brian’s chipper chorus of knocks on a corner office door in the graphics department, so he pushes inside, pink envelope lifted high. “Letter for you, Frank, from your doting husband.”

A woman with her head on her desk groans and cocks a frown at us, petite nose scrunching on her round face beneath Wayfarer glasses. Then she mutters, “Curse you, Brian.”

Brian flashes his teeth in a bright smile. “I’m sure I have no idea why you’d say such a mean thing.”

Snuffing, Frank snatches the envelope from Brian’s fingers and slouches, jutting a lip as she opens it.

“Dinner tonight is Chicken Francese with roast potatoes and a Caesar salad. I miss you dearly, and my life is empty without your shining light. Come home soon because if you work late, I will drown myself in my own tears of agony and loneliness.” Dry, she smacks the poor letter against her desk and tosses it onto an all-in-one drawing table beside her monitor set up.

“That could have been a text.” Her eyes narrow.

“I could be texting my dear Normie right now while I suffer beneath the weight of ungodly deadlines. Instead, he’s opting for communication that takes two business days to get here. ”

“You wound me. Of course I let Norman drop his letters off with me personally and deliver them day-of.” Brian sets a hand to his heart, and I mimic the motion, also wounded, in solidarity.

“Tonight I’m telling my husband that—actually—he doesn’t need to send letters to appease you anymore since you’ve developed something like a normal human relationship with mail.”

Brian’s lip juts. “Norman is smarter than to ever believe such a horrible, horrible lie.”

Frank rolls her eyes skyward and pushes her square eyeglass frames up so she can rub her eyes. “Fine, then I’m telling him if he doesn’t stop this nonsense, I’m counting it as cheating on me with you and will have no choice but to divorce him.”

Brian scoffs, tossing a flippant hand in the air. Plainly, like a teenage girl from a tween movie, he says, “As if.”

Frank stares at Brian, and Brian stares at Frank.

After a while, Frank dissolves back onto her desk.

“Fine. I would never say such a thing to my dear sweet Normie.” Frank’s lips pucker as she mumbles, “I just want to go home. Receiving letters makes me feel like a soldier at war. I’m in the trenches.

Life is suffering.” Her head tilts, and she seems to see me for the first time. “Who’s the newbie?”

Brian flourishes. “Amelia, meet Frank. Frank, meet Amelia Christmas.”

“Charmed,” Frank drawls. “Run while you still can. Brian’s nuts. He sings to the mail.”

I know. I know he does. He always has. It’s beautiful . Like an angel has blessed my eardrums with the purest of sounds.

Brian rolls his eyes toward me, and a glint of delight lights in them as he says, “We can sing together.”

Duets…with…Brian.

Heat erupts in my cheeks.

“Oh,” Frank curses, “no. There’s two of them…”

Smug, Brian grips his mail bag strap and sticks his nose in the air. “Anyway, glad we cleared that up. Come now, A-mail-ia. Let’s go see Will; he appreciates me.”

I straighten when Brian passes me, then I twist toward Frank, who is plucking her letter up off her drawing table, opening a drawer in her desk, and setting it lovingly inside atop others speckled in hearts. Warmth fills me as I say, “It was very nice to meet you, Frank.”

“A-mail-ia!” Brian calls. “Don’t get too far behind fraternizing with those who have yet to appreciate the power of mail. The elevator takes several business days to operate.”

“Sorry! Coming!” I dart out of the graphics office, up the hall, and into the forced proximity of the elevator for an unforeseeable length of time. Fiddling with the frilled hem of my dress skirt, I say, “Sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize.”

“She was saving her letter.”

Brian breathes a laugh. “I know. She saves all of them. She’s just a bit overstimulated today.

She loves her husband and his casual love letters.

He comes by the office sometimes just to bring her coffee and a snack.

Once, he did it in a flour-covered apron, and she nearly killed him.

It was very cute. She said no one was allowed to see him like that but her.

He was beet red before he left, but he was smiling deeply. ”

I love them, your honor. “They sound precious.”

“Yep.” Brian sifts through his mail bag, assessing the next floor’s deliveries.

“She can grumble all she wants about how texting is more convenient and less stationed in the trenches of the working world , but nothing embodies the love they have like a letter. Someday, they’ll be able to sort through those memories.

Infinite text scroll can’t capture what mail can. ”

“That’s beautiful.”

Brian smiles at me. “Love always is.”

When the elevator doors open, someone somewhere down the hall shrieks, “ Will! ” and Brian laughs.

“Speaking of lovebirds…” he says, “…let’s meet another pair.”