By Christine Brand
The letterbox crashes, I run down the stairs to the front door. We don’t often get post and I’m startled by the loudness. The newspaper boy leaves the paper on the step, having caught his finger once too often in our (dangerous) snapping letterbox. A card lies on the doormat. I smile. It’s the 13th of February. I assume the card is for one of the girls I share a house with. I pick it up and turn it over.
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