He didn’t look up when Margaret walked into the den, but that was okay. She had made more of a show of it the first few times. Once, unable to contain her giddiness, she had even danced about like a rooster, letter held high in the air. But it wasn’t like that anymore.
Not now.
Not after ninety-three letters.
She approached with small, almost somber steps. His back towards her, he sat hunched over a simple desk. There was a certain rhythm to the clicks of the keys on his keyboard; Margaret had noticed that much over the years. They’d start steady; controlled, even – like the ticks of an old clock, or a metronome on a quarter beat. Margaret liked to imagine this is when his thoughts would gather; imagine them piling one atop the other against a worn, concrete dam somewhere deep inside his head. It was only ever a handful of moments before that dam would burst, sending a flurry of ideas and words cascading from his head to his fingers, to the keyboard to the page. She enjoyed watching him work.
That much hadn’t changed.
She placed a hand on his shoulder and he paused, though not startled.
“You got another letter today,” she said. It came out more somber than she meant it. She bit her lip, thinking she probably should have led off with a hello.
He said nothing, tapping his finger against the desk.
“Are you going to open it?” Margaret asked.
There was a small calendar on his desk. He glanced towards it. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” he asked. “Four days?”
She nodded. “They’re certainly not arriving as often as they used to.”
He grunted, amused by what she had said but choosing not to explain why. He turned to face her, making eye contact before allowing his gaze to drift to the envelope in her hand. “How’s it feel?” he asked.
“How’s it feel?”
“Compared to the others? Thicker? Thinner? More interested?”
“Oh. Thicker,” she lied.
He nodded his head, allowing her comment to sink in. “Thicker…that’s good. Thicker’s good.” He raised a finger. “Means there’s more pages. And more pages mean more words. And more words? That’s more interest.”
Margaret forced a smile.
He rubbed his hands together. “Do you know what letter this is?”
“I don’t,” she said.
She did.
“Ninety-four. This is the ninety-fourth time we’ve done this. It’s the ninety-fourth time we’ve received one of these in the mail. The ninety-fourth time you’ve brought one into my office.” He reached out, sliding the envelope out from here grasp. “The ninety-fourth time the envelope from your hand. But, the first time…”
His voice trailed off.
He glanced down at the envelope; Margaret followed his gaze. She had helped him write most of these – helped stamp them too. This was one of hers.
“Do you know what they say about the ninety-fourth time?” he asked.
Margaret cocked her head, surprised. “No…what do they say?”
“I don’t know.” He looked up, smiled. “Was hoping you might had heard of something.”
She smiled, for real this time. He put on a good face, always had.
He slid his thumb beneath the corner of the envelope, but then paused. “Shit,” he mumbled.
Thank you for reading Part 1 of The 94th Time! Be on the lookout for Part 2 tomorrow!
- theKid
(Picture from Pixabay)