Postie’s Pause

With helmet visor lowered, I thought of my pet goldfish and her delicate feathered finned graceful water dance, while I’m as graceful as a horse walking in flippers across a pond of porridge.

It’s a far cry from becoming a Sushi chef–when I’m allergic to fish and kept one as a pet. I can relate to my pet goldfish, watching the world through my helmet’s visor delivering mail to the masses. There are the postcards from travellers already home, and the bills no one wanted. The odd grandparent birthday card, where you try and guess its cash contents. All while the scooter caused a canine Mexican barking wave–in stereo.

But back to my goldfish window theory…

We live behind windows.

Every day.

Houses have windows.

Cars are mobile fish tanks.

Office windowed towers are full of people floating around.

Isn’t Earth, wrapped in her sea of gravity, just a bigger fishbowl?

“Shiiiiiiit – they’re open!” My scooter screeches to a halt as the adrenalin spike of fear squirrels up my spine. My heart tries to escape its rib cage and the helmet’s visor began fogging up, as sweat gathered inside my gloves, and I waited with a shallow breath.

I gunned the engine with one hand as the other slid beneath my seat for The Equaliser’. Not recommended, not advertised, not condoned, but sadly a necessity.

Because there stood the duo of canine severity.

They stared at me. I stared back.

They lowered their heads, squared off their shoulders, hackles raised.

I raised my foggy visor and flicked the switch on The Equaliser and noted the time for the report about to be committed.

It was the wrong gate to be open, on the wrong street, with the wrong duo of dogs.

And me.

Stuck in a side-street duel, in the middle of a Mexican standoff an hour before lunch.

“INSIDE,” shouted the owner, chasing her dogs back into the yard. “I’m so sorry. They won’t hurt you.”

Not from what I’ve endured when the pampered pooches’ poop-scooping owners aren’t around.

With the equaliser re-hidden, grateful I didn’t need to file my already mentally written report, I gunned the scooter and went back to my fishbowl view delivering the word to the masses. Except for that house – they’re mail’s gonna be late for a bit.

(387 words)


Home Sweet Not - by Mel A Rowe

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