Page 122 of Wrong Mail

By the time he turns back, I have both hands around my cup.

“They hung up. Probably the cable company," he says, and sits. "They've been hounding me for weeks to sign up.”

He lifts his cup and drinks.

"So…what do you do for a living?" he asks.

"I help put animals down." I set my cup down.

He gives me a look, half a smile, almost surprised, waiting for the rest.

"That came out wrong," I say. “Sorry. I’m training to be a vet. I work at a clinic a few days a week. It’s difficult. The end is the part nobody wants. You know, when there's nothing left to do for the animal."

"That takes a certain person."

I nod.

We talk a while longer. He asks if I have always lived in this state.

"No," I say. “I’m originally from Oregon."

He pauses. "Oregon. Huh."

Then he glances down at the envelope, as if remembering himself. “Where are my manners. I forgot to introduce myself. Though I suppose you already know, seeing as you brought my mail here." He puts out a hand. "Robert Lane. And you are?"

"Sophie." I take it. His hand is warm and dry.

"So, Sophie." He settles back. "The part where you put them down. Does it get to you?"

"Less than it should."

"Takes a strong stomach," he says.

"My father had one," I say, holding his gaze. "He's the one who taught me."

He looks curiously at me over his cup.

"He died," I say. "Not long ago."

"I'm sorry," he says, and means it, which is worse than if he didn't.

We talk a while more. Nothing important. The rain. The street. The ferry schedule. Then, in the middle of a sentence about the ferry, he stops with the cup halfway to his mouth.

He blinks.

He puts a hand on the table, as if the room has shifted under it.

"Sorry," he says. "That's odd."

"Are you all right?" I ask.

"Just tired all of a sudden." He tries to laugh.

He goes to set the cup down and misjudges it. The cup tips, hits the table, and coffee spreads dark across the wood before running over the edge onto the floor.

“Sorry, I’ll get something for that.”

He stands, sways, catches the back of his chair, then reaches for the counter and makes it to the sink. He comes back with a paper towel and bends toward the spill, but his knees go loose under him.