The Mailbox

"How are you today?

"Tired.

"Have you not been sleeping well?

"No¦well, yes, I've been sleeping fine. Like 9, 10 hours, but then I get up and I'm exhausted, like I've been running a marathon or having really great sex all day and then all I want to do is collapse into a ball of euphoria, but there's no euphoria and I have work and typing and dealing with real, uptight assholes in their starched collared shirts complaining about how they need their Christmas bonuses to get a pool in the backyard for their wanna-be swimming athlete of a kid who's really a dumbass who'll probably end up dead at 25 because a hooker put too much into his arm. I just don't feel satisfied with anything anymore.

"How did your date go?

"What? Oh, well, badly. I mean, what do you expect from me? I'm a wreck. A complete and total wreck.

"What happened?

"Okay, so I pick the girl up at her house, right? Real classy. I pull up in my car, and she comes out the front door like she was waiting for me, waiting for me, and what do I do? I roll forward too far; so I pop it into reverse, hit the accelerator a little too hard, and back up right into her mailbox. So, she's coming out to me all cute, adorable, little skirt, swinging breasts caught up in this great white tank top, and I run into her fucking mailbox. Run it right down. So, I smile, you know, like my face is melting and her mouth is completely dropped open, like she was gasping for air cause I just turned off the whatchamacallit in her fish tank or whatever, the¦the¦bubbler. Yeah.
Anyway, so, I pop it into drive, get the car off the mailbox, and get out, with my head down, completely and stupidly embarrassed. I shouldn't have even gotten out of the car. I should have left her at the curb and just kept driving, but you know, I had come that far. Gotten dressed up, gotten to her house, and if I had to deal with picking up the mailbox and putting it back into the ground and maybe buying her a new one, I was going to do it because I was that gung-ho.
So, I'm rubbing the back of my head, real obvious to show that I'm sheepish and I feel stupid and she should be kind. Thankfully, she sees this. She doesn't say anything.
I pick the mailbox up and it's like barely hurt, really. I just sort of bent the post and the door's not looking quite right, but you know, we didn't have to worry about it right then because it's dark. I put it up, arrange it a bit, my back to her, and then turn around to be all Jeopardy like and be like, 'Hey, look at what I did? Your wonderful future boyfriend who's great in bed and loves children just picked up and put the mailbox I drove over back into the ground. Ain't I great?'
I turn around, big smile, arms held out. She's not there. I sort of spin around, you know like, "Where the hell did she go and what the hell am I doing here? Is this Wonderland? Did someone kidnap her suddenly and pull her into the bushes? Does she need my help? Will she want me to help her after I ran over her mailbox? Is that an analogy she's going to use to break up with me in 6 months? 'Dating you has been the equal of you running over my mailbox.' Is she going to say, 'I should have known after you ran over my mailbox that you were a complete and total loser, and hey, you're balding'?
Words and events are going through my head like crazy. I'm thinking of us getting married years down the road, but it's not like I'm really thinking about it, it's more like I'm thinking about how my running over her mailbox has ruined that future event and I'm scared shitless that I just ran over the mailbox of my potential future wife who's now going to be just another fucked-up relationship to add to my score of other fucked-up relationships.
But, suddenly, she's here. I can stop panicking, at least like I was, and she's beautiful. She looks so beautiful, like an angel, drifting out of the darkness of the night, the street lamp is reflecting off her hair and she's smiling. She's carrying this stick in her hand and I'm like, 'Is she going to hit me with that? Is she going to club me to death, all smiling and beautiful, because I ran over her mailbox?' But no, she snaps on a flashlight and she says, 'I just wanted to make sure you hadn't hurt your car,' and points that little ray of light, that beautiful little hopeful sunshine on my car.
It's fucked up. Some of the paint is scuffed, but you know, it doesn't matter. I'm happy. She's beautiful. I'm happy with a beautiful woman. I put my hands on her back and guide her to the car. She slips in and I turn back before going to the other side, and she's looking up at me with this innocent, absolutely gorgeous smile. I can see the swell of her breasts in her tank top. I think about slipping off the tank top right there, turning around, opening the door and kissing her, drawing her back into the stick shift, dragging my mouth along her skin, pulling off the tank top, revealing these buoyant, lovely breasts, pushing her skirt up, she'll have those really cute boy shorts type of underwear, maybe with Peter Pan or Tinkerbell on them and I'll smile and sort of push them aside and¦
The thought stops there. She's starting to notice that I'm standing there too long, staring at her car door, wandering what her thighs would look like pressed up against my stomach. I turn back around. Head to my car door.
Suddenly, I'm nervous. Before, I was embarrassed. I felt stupid, but after thinking about fucking her, I'm nervous. I think she's heard me. The thought process has conveyed itself to her in her all-encompassing female knowledge. She turns to me and smiles. I'm strangely comforted and I turn the key in the ignition. We leave. I watch her while I'm driving to the restaurant. She looks so beautiful and I can't forget the image of her thighs. Just her thighs, and the paleness of her skin contrasted with the red of her skirt hiked up to her waist. I like it. I like it too much.
Dinner goes by fine. We talk about trivial matters, as usual. She goes to the bathroom twice. I watch her as she leaves and as she comes back. Her breasts and ass moving in perfect unison no matter which way she's heading. It's lovely. It's intoxicating. I buy some wine. Red. We eat our spaghetti and drink the wine I bought. She talks about teaching children. Maybe she's an elementary school teacher, I can't remember. I smile. I watch her lips. I rub my dick through my pants. I pay the check. We leave.
Her mailbox looks a lot more damaged than it did when we left. I remember freaking out right after I fixed it last time. I remember not really looking at it, and now that I do, I realize that it's horrible. The cute Noah's Ark shaped part is completely bent up, the hinge is broken. I'm fucked. Not getting laid ever. Potential future wife dream ended.
She invites me in. I think it's to ream me out, tell me what an asshole I am for running over her mailbox on our first date and then she'll beat me with the flashlight, crack of plastic against my skull, dropping to the floor and memorizing the graininess of the skin at her ankles, wishing I had just left when it all happened because then at least I'd be alive, even if I wouldn't have gotten laid.
She kisses me and everything falls into place. I'm smooth again. I push her onto the sofa, lift off her tank top, her breasts are buoyant and lovely, just like I expected, she even has this cute spray of freckles around her belly button. She takes off my shirt and pants, cutely, all cutely. I'm running my hands up her thighs and I suddenly discover that she's not wearing any panties at all. I stop. I lift up her skirt as if I'm about to run into a dark cave and I just need to shed some light into it first. She's not wearing any underwear. No cute boy shorts, pink or blue or green or whatever. No Peter Pan, no Tinkerbell. Suddenly, I'm not turned on anymore. I look down at my dick; the firm resonant obviousness of my hard-on is definitely gone. She notices it. I notice her noticing it. She looks at my dick, her eyes glazing weirdly, and then she looks at what I'm looking at, lifting her red skirt in the air like I'm about to duck under in some cat and mouse game, and she thinks the worst.

'Are you¦gay?'

She perches herself up on her elbows, sort of arranging herself, her breasts swinging pendulously, deliciously¦I drop her skirt and smile crookedly, laughing and shaking my head and hands in unison,

'Hey, no, no, not at all.'

'Then, what is it?'

I try to think of something to say. 'I just wanted you to be wearing pink boy shorts with Peter Pan on them.' That doesn't seem to work. Then, she'll think I'm some fucked up weirdo who needs little boys to look at during sex.
I smile again. Rubbing my thighs nervously and say, 'You know, I don't think I can do this tonight.'

Being a woman, she replies with, 'Yeah, neither do I.'

She adjusts herself, slipping that horrible, restraining tank top back over her head, her breasts covered and hidden from me¦I put on my pants, brushing down the wrinkles of my jeans like I have some place special to be right after this, Mr. Popular, you've got another girl to fuck waiting in line¦ She walks me to the door; I do the clipped wave and clenched, raised smile. She pulls up the middle of her mouth, a smirk, an 'I should have never invited you in' smile and closes the door behind me.
Outside, all I'm left with is this feeling of absolute and utter failure. I couldn't keep it up and right next to my car, like a blazing emblem to my own ineptitude, is the broken mailbox. I get in my car and drive home.
I get into my bed and sleep and I wake up and, guess what?
I'm exhausted.