She looked out the window and watched the houses along the
Great West Road sprinting by. Anyone watching her would have assumed that she
was tired from the flight, just wanting to return home and have a decent cup of
tea. But she was preoccupied. In her head she was rehearsing the phone call.
Friendly but firm? Distant and apologetic? Succinct and business like?
The car began to slow and the houses became more recognisable.
Bay windows with modern wooden slats. A range of recycling bins in interesting
colours that clashed. One house in particular was recognisable. Red door. Brass
door furniture and iron railings in need of a lick of paint waited expectantly.
She opened the door and tripped over the mail. Junk mail,
bills, BOGOF pizzas, leave some clothing for a good cause in plastic bag
provided (we’ll be collecting Wednesday) and an A4 formal manilla envelope,
franked and addressed. But to whom?
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