Stamped

The letter was still on the kitchen table, where she’d left it the day before. A small part of her hoped that it might disappear. Or that burglars would break in, and thinking it important, take it along with her laptop and jewelry.

She tried to ignore it as she made dinner. Noodles and tomato juice. Something started humming. Looking up from the pot of noodles and pasta, she saw the letter getting bigger. It expanded, knocked the pot from the stove, and forced her out the back door.

The return address, in his sloppy hand, filled the door frame.

 

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