Word Count: 463
I’m listening for the howl of the fire alarm horn. For the rush of the trucks, sirens blaring. I am seriously worried I may have started a fire.
It happened yesterday morning, running errands, making the loop through the towns and stopping for gas, groceries, but first stop, the post office uptown. It’s a small tired village where you leave the car running in winter out in the parking lot because you can. On Sunday the mail trucks are lined up like toys on the side. No one is around. I pulled right up to the outside mailbox and left the car door open for the six steps it took to the box. I opened the flap with my right hand, my left holding the mail and a cigarette. I’m not supposed to smoke in the car. I’m not supposed to be smoking at all. That’s why I don’t use the ashtray.
It took only a puff, I was barely out of the driveway and heading down to the market. I sucked and I sucked and realized my cigarette had gone out. And then I saw why; the head was missing. The fully fired and burning head of ashes was gone. And then I knew where it was.
It’s a small town, like I said. Someone might have driven by and might even have known me. I didn’t go back, didn’t dare. What could I do? It would take a while to catch fire, slowly smoldering in that pile of birthday cards, bills, Dear John letters. I imagined the next person stopping, opening the flap, letting in air and adding that needed oxygen. I imagined that giant ball of flame that shoots out like you see in the movies. I imagined the men with their thick hoses filling the mailbox with water. I imagined the aftermath, the crime scene gone over to discover the source of the fire. I imagined my bill for the cable TV, my name clearly as the return address, a small circle, brittle and burnt from where the ashes had dropped.
I didn’t sleep well that night. It’s a small town, the mail isn’t picked up on Sunday. Monday morning I searched the news, bleary-eyed and ready to turn myself in. I had coffee to steady my nerves. I showered and dressed, took a deep breath and got in the car. Drove by twice before I had the courage to pull into the post office lot. Nothing. Nothing. The same old mail box and no snares to catch me back at the scene of the crime.
I breathed a sigh of relief. Got back in my car and lit up a cigarette, ready to make my rounds, listening to the news on the radio and safely stress out.
