The Day His Coffee Got Cold

He went to the mail box every day, to get his bills, his PC Magazine and his People Magazine, and the requests for money from the World Wildlife Fund and his old university. He opened his mail box, took out the bills and magazines and the requests for money, closed his mail box, and walked into his apartment. The bills, he would set next to his checkbook, to pay on the twentieth of every month. The requests for money, he would throw away, unopened. The magazines, he would read while eating dry toast and plain scrambled eggs, drinking black coffee and a glass of iced water.

Sometimes, as he entered his building and approached the mail boxes, he would think of his family. He was not expecting to hear from them, but he would think of them and raise his eyebrows as he thought of them, without knowing he was doing it.

His sister, who was angry at him because he called her boyfriend a sneaky bastard. How dare you, she had screamed, you don't know him. The sneaky bastard was her husband now, and he was in jail for some sort of corporate theft, or something else that had involved sneakiness, but still she did not write, or call. She was still angry.

His mother, who refused to write to him because he would not visit for Christmas fifteen years ago. It was a terrible ear infection, he wrote to her, and the doctor wouldn't let me fly. I called you, didn't I? You could have driven, had been her last words to him, and now she did not write, or call.

His father, who had left when he was five, forty years ago. No one knew where he was. No letters were expected from him.

These were the thoughts about his family, which would pass through his head as he went to the mail box, where no letter was expected.

He did not think of any friends. He had not thought of friends for a long time. Sometimes he would remember that friends were something he had, once. Now he had people he worked with, or people that lived near him, or people who made his Subway sandwich every day at lunch time. Anyway, the friends he used to think of, were not the kind that would write letters, they were the calling at all hours kind, or the dropping in without calling ahead kind, sometimes. He had stopped answering his door, and they started calling more often. He stopped answering his phone, and they stopped calling. They never wrote.

Each day he checked his mail, not expecting a letter, and each day there was not one, so it was a life without surprises, easy to manage. He made his coffee, eggs, and toast in the morning, went to work, had his Subway sandwich for lunch - turkey, plain, with lettuce and green peppers - went back to work, then came home to watch the news and eat some canned soup or a grilled cheese, or sometimes a frozen dinner. No mail, no calls, no visitors. No stress.

One day was a Monday, the twentieth, which was bill paying day, and also People Magazine day. He woke, put the coffee on, then showered and shaved, in that order, and dressed for work. He poured his coffee and left it to cool while he left to check the mail. There was People, and the cover showed famous women who were on diets and wearing bathing suits. There was a request for money from a children's charity in Africa. There was also a letter.

He hadn't been expecting that.

The letter was in a yellow envelope, with a handwritten address in blue ink, with no return label. The first line of the address was his full name, even the middle one, like on his birth certificate. He had never gone by his full name. The letter was a mystery.

He set the letter next to his breakfast plate while he started his eggs and toast. He looked at the letter while the eggs and toast cooked. The eggs burned, smelling very bad, and his coffee grew cold, while he stared at the letter. The handwriting was not familiar. He did not open it.

The letter was unexpected. He did not like surprises. He liked routine. This would not do.

As he stared at the letter, there was a knock at the door. He turned to look, and there was another knock. He blinked, and set his cup of cold coffee on the yellow envelope without thinking, leaving a brown wet ring on the unexpected letter. He stared at the door, and the knocking came again.

This was not going to be a good day.