I go to the post office to mail in the taxes I owe. $9,045. So painful.
I am close to the filing date so I am sending my checks via certified mail.
I get to the window.
I come here regularly and know most of the mail clerks by face. Most look glum and bored.
"Good morning," I start.
"How are you sending this," is the response — not unexpected.
"I think I'll send it certified so I can track it."
"They're all horrible. All of them. Anyway, how is your kid?"
I don't recall ever engaging this woman in enough conversation for her to be asking about Alexander. And who are all horrible, I wonder.
I look up at my postal clerk. She's not in any rush to process my certified letter.
Nope.
She's wearing partially hidden small ear buds and is engaged in a conversation with her friend.
I say nothing and leave. No sense in testing the going postal cliche.
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