Tritia blushed. She unwrapped the bottle and turned it around to read the label. “Champagne!” She gave Howard a quick peck on the cheek. “Thanks so much. I guess this means we’ll forgo the Dr. Pepper.” She went into the kitchen, put the bottle down on the counter, and threw the wrapping paper in the garbage sack under the sink. “You two keep yourselves busy for a few minutes. I’ll get the hors d’oeuvres ready.”

Doug motioned for Howard to sit down in one of the chairs across from the couch, and the postmaster obliged. Doug sat down as well. It was warm. The windows were open, the fan on, but the air still bordered on the uncomfortable. From upstairs came the familiar strains of the theme from M.A.S.H. Doug smiled at Howard.

“Excuse me for a moment.” He stood up again and walked to the foot of the stairs. “Turn it down,” he called out. “It’s too loud.” The noise of the television faded into a drone, then was silenced. “Billy,” he explained, walking back. He settled into the chair. There were questions he wanted to ask, things he wanted to know, but he didn’t know how to approach the subject subtly. He cleared his throat, deciding to jump right in, hoping he didn’t sound too interested, too curious. “So how’re you getting along with the new mailman? Is he still living with you?”

“Yeah,” Howard admitted, “but I don’t see him much. You know how it is. I’m an old man. I go to bed earlier than he does, wake up later than he does. Our life-styles don’t exactly match.”

“So what’s he like?”

Tritia walked up and placed a plate of cheese crepes on the small table between them. “I’ll be back with the champagne,” she said sweetly. She fixed Doug with a hard meaningful stare as she turned away from the postmaster, but he pretended not to see it.

Each of them took a crepe and bit into it. “Mmmm,” Howard said, closing his eyes and savoring the taste. “That’s one thing I miss with Murial being gone: good cooking. You get tired of frozen food and hot dogs after a while.”

“Don’t you cook?” Tritia asked, bringing them two glasses of champagne.

“I try, but I fail.”

She laughed lightly as she returned to the kitchen for her own drink.

“So what’s he like?” Doug asked again. “He sure delivers the mail early. Bob used to come by around noon. Now by the time we eat breakfast and clean up a bit, the mail’s there.”