The familiar sound of mail being dropped through the postal slot caught Chauncey’s bat-like ears. He jumped up and scurried across the wooden floors, his nails skittering like human fingers tapping on a keyboard, towards the door. Sniffing the mail, he then bee-lined it for the couch, leaping like the natural athlete he is, to push aside the curtain to watch the postal carrier recede down the sidewalk towards the street.
On most days I would think to myself, “I wish I had half as much energy as Chaun”, but today was not one of those days. Listlessness had permeated my very being to the extent that there was not even a subconscious nudge that it was time to pull myself out of it.
The missives lay there another hour before I mustered the energy to rise from the la-z-boy. Carrying them over to the dining room table, there was no curiosity to see what was there. Most of the time it was marketing junk anyway.
As I tiredly dropped them, they splayed, one displaying the return address of the publisher I’d submitted my manuscript to weeks ago. Opening said addressed envelope, the letter inside read a dream-come-true: they wanted to meet with me about publishing my manuscript. I dropped them back down and returned to the easy chair. Chaun jumped up and curled on my lap as we both dozed off.
I woke to the sound of the house phone. Grumbling because it meant I had to get up and vowing once again to discontinue the service, I got to it before it went into voicemail.
“Lisa, are you ready to go?” said the voice on the line.
“What time is it?”, I asked.
“I’ll be ready by the time you get here.”
I hung up the phone and headed for the shower. The funeral started at 4.