She couldn’t remember exactly when it had started.
Of course it had been going on for a number of years, she knew that. But to actually put a date on it or to remember the occasion of the first delivery; no, that she couldn’t do. It was insidious, creeping into her life like a cancer. Every day, the filthy old guy from across the street brings her mail, taken from her mail box and bringing it to her front door. There would be a tapping on the door, he never rang the doorbell. No matter what it was; letters, local paper, flyers, notices, brochures, there was always something, and he would bring it.
At first she tried telling him that despite getting on in years, it was no problem for her to walk the short distance down the front path to collect it herself. It was as though she had never said anything.
The worst part of it was his dirty clothes and the smell he always gave off. The fact that his face was so wrinkled and blotchy didn’t help. In short, he was quite ugly. Although she had no way of knowing how old he was, he must be well into his eighties or nineties. All in all, she would rather he didn’t do it. She had, over the years, thought of a number of ways she could put a stop to it, but none of them seemed to be right after thinking it through. At one point she came to the conclusion that the matter would only be fully resolved if he simply dropped dead.
However, this notion wasn’t enough. She began to imagine things; scenarios. She would play them out in her mind. As time went by, she found that these fantasies actually brought her some small measure of solace.
He might simply clutch at his chest one morning, before the postman made his rounds, have a heart attack and die quite peacefully, right there on his kitchen floor. As he’s not that steady on his feet, he could always fall and break his hip or his leg badly. So bad that he was not able to move; just lay there and die. He might have some heavy object come crashing down on his head and just lay there helpless, slowly bleeding to death. Of course, there was always the chance that he could just choke on a piece of food and die. It was also possible that some faulty wiring or a frayed appliance cord could see him electrocuted.
Considering how unhygienic the old man is, he could so easily eat something that had gone bad. With those teeth of his, he wouldn’t even taste that it was off. Once the agony of it set in he wouldn’t be able to get help and he would die of poisoning. On the other hand, if in fact he owns a bath, he could slip getting in, fall and hit his head. If he tumbled into the bath unconscious he would drown. There again, falling in the kitchen with a large, extremely sharp knife in his hand could be immediately fatal; especially if it was driven straight into his heart. She knows that he smokes. He could have an accident in his bedroom one night. A smouldering cigarette end falling to the floor. His death would be slow and very painful, with him gasping for air, collapsing through a lack of oxygen and eventually dying right there while the flames licked around until the whole house…
She was in one of these reveries when she heard the gate go. A tap-tap at the door; he never uses the bell. He stands there holding letters, grinning with broken, black and yellow teeth.
“Oh!” she says with feigned surprise, “that’s very kind of you.” She says this the way she always says it.
As he closes the gate he gives a little wave.
She smiles, waves back, and closes the door.