Postage Paid

“Did you get my postcard?” the grating voice on the other end of the phone said.

“Not yet,” Goat said.

“Really? I sent it like a week ago.”

“The mail’s always late.”

“That city is falling apart. We saw on the news. It looks terrible. You could always move back home.”

He switched the phone to the other ear and stepped outside to smoke. The city was working, ploddingly, on the street. They’d torn up or scraped off the asphalt off two weeks ago, and were just now digging down, trying to replace the water lines.

“I like it here.”

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