My lover is the colour of springtime sky, bordered in pillar-box red and Oxford blue. He says he’s feeling flimsy.
‘Slim, more like,’ I say, ‘My jet-set, slimline lover.’
He isn’t my first; I’m no Miss Chaste of Paperchase. I’ve been besotted with Basildon Bonds and manhandled by buff manillas. I’ve tried hand-cut and open-ended and getting sticky with self-adhesives, with admirers franking their stamps from Selsey to Sri Lanka. I had a quickie with a jiffy bag, and a session in a sorting office with a broad-shouldered board-back. I’ve even been off-envelope with a panoramic postcard of views of Morecambe Bay.
I’ve strayed with self-addressed and offset windows, and sampled wallet folds and peel-and-seal. I’ve flirted with fluteds and been lured by translucents, but my lightweight lover always delivers.
Until today.
‘I’ve lost my letterbox,’ he says. ‘It’s all messaging now.’
He’s right. Our relationship has missed the post.
I wonder where to redirect him. Czechoslovakia or Peking? Danzig or Bechuanaland?
I kiss his gummy lips, press him down, and write ‘Neverland’ on his face.
I’m guilt-edged as I head out for the last collection, and almost add a return address. But the postman’s at the gate, waving a shale-grey silkweave with scarlet accordion pleats.
Chris Cottom is a vegan Christian cyclist who’s spent the better half of his life outside Macclesfield. He’s packed Christmas hampers in a Harrods basement, sold airtime for Radio Luxembourg, and served a twelve-year stretch as an insurance copywriter. His winning entry in the 2023 Off the Rails 3 Minute Story Competition was read aloud to passengers on the Esk Valley Railway between Middlesbrough and Whitby. In the early 1970s he lived next door to JRR Tolkien.
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