The mailman who delivers mail to work is really strange. Not a strange person, but strange for a mailman. Our past mailmen have all been older and all of them wore a uniform. This guy is young and never wears a uniform. The first five times he came to deliver the mail I kept asking him who he was coming to visit. He looks like someone I went to highschool with. Not anyone in particular really, just that one type of guy that all the girls had crushes on. Our old mailman used to say hi and ask how my day was going. This guy always says, "Hay!" and then smirks at me. Today after he smirked he said, "Habadoyon," which is mailmanese for "Have a good one." I carried the mail into my office and started sneezing. Then I noticed a strange stain on the mail. Then, I started to smell it. Yes, our mail was drenched in Polo. Which begs the question: does he carry cologne in his mailbag? If so, why? And if not, what on earth happened to my mail?
It was an office, not unlike any of the other offices around the city. There were windows, visible to the lucky few cubes on the ends of the rows. Then there was Vera's cube, situated next to the row of manager's offices. Today she was lucky, someone had left their door open and precious slant of sunlight escaped, warming her back and washing out half of her computer screen. "I never realized your hair was red," Tracy dumped a large stack of paper on her desk, "The florescent lights make everything look so soupy." "What is that?" she pointed at the stack of paper. Tracy only offered compliments when he wanted a favor. "I need this entered," he smiled, a dimple appearing in his cheek. "You have a secretary," Vera waved a freckled hand to her left, "Ask him." "He's sick," Tracy gave her puppy-dog eyes, batting his long dark eyelashes. Vera sighed and fought back a smile. Tracy was such a s...