This Is Not a Love Scene by S. C. Megale

Author:S. C. Megale
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Press

Fred Kingfisher Wed, Nov 7, 2:51 PM

to M. Leeson

Dear Maeve,

Sorry for the late email. And happy to hear you have some potential action in the forecast with a young man. How’d you meet him?

I’ve been hesitating to tell you I’ve gone on a few dates with an older woman from Christian Mingle. I like her a lot. The site makes it easier to attract some open-minded partners. If things don’t work out, I recommend it.

Hope you’re not getting your shotgun ready for me this time around.

Fred

I kept my thumb on the screen and scrolled the email up and down on my phone. I guess it seemed weird to me. Two things.

1. He hesitated to tell me he’s seeing someone?

2. I need to find good Christian men.

God, you don’t know how often I hear this. Come unto me, all ye sinners.

I closed the email because I wasn’t ready to respond. Unfortunately for Fred, that usually means I’ll forget for weeks. I sighed.

Departing from the digital world, I stowed my phone and returned my attention to the post office counter in front of me. I’d asked Mom to drop me off here and let me run some errands in the surrounding shopping center. François had joined me with a perky gait—errands for him mean service dog showtime. He should get little campaign medals every time he serves a tour helping me in a new place we visit.

François’ eyebrow—a little whisker over his eye—flicked up now. Drool threaded down his mouth, making the blue pen he was holding very unattractive. I turned and took it from his jaw, wiping it on my shirt. Four unaddressed letters lay on the table in front of me, post office clerks scanning Priority Mail barcodes behind the counter across the floor. A few overachieving moms stood in line with gift-wrapped packages. Two-ish weeks before Thanksgiving.

My letters still had jack-o’-lantern stamps on them. I used the pen to fill in the inmate ID numbers of the four prisoners I was writing.

A couple of years ago, I volunteered with this anti-death-penalty coalition, and it rolled into me becoming pen pals with a few prisoners. They’re always thrilled to receive my letters, and I don’t sugarcoat the shit that goes on in my life. I send them pictures of me and François doing various activities. Unlike all the other female volunteers in the coalition, I don’t have the problem of the prisoners wanting more from my friendship. I “inspire” them.

“All done?”

A young postwoman with long lashes stopped next to me and offered to take my letters.

IF SHE WERE A GUY: “Yes, sir. Can you overnight express me to your bed by any chance?”

BECAUSE SHE’S NOT: “I can do it myself, thanks.”

She nodded and walked off. I can never tell how standoffish I sound. But it’s her fault for not being a guy, right?

I dropped the letters in the regular-mail slot, and François perked up as I led him out the automatic door.

Cold wind ripped through us. It lifted François’ floppy ears.

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