Libanpost

Nelly (Nelly!) calls me upstairs and laughs at me, because I have been up every other day this week. “Ellen!” she says. “The celebrity!” “I AM a celebrity,” I say. “I should have my own team of secretaries.” I carry the envelope impatiently back downstairs, past The Boss’s office, past the photocopiers, past the little kitchen and the Indescribably Vile Arabic Coffee Machine. “MORE letters?” say my colleagues. “Yes,” I say, smug.

I am already smiling at the handwriting that I have recognized on the envelope, now inkily patched over with Arabic post office stamps. Sometimes I didn’t even know I knew that person’s handwriting. How did that happen? I ferret it open and bask in the scrawls from Dalston, the good wishes from Ireland, the books from Shepherd’s Bush, the books from Borough wrapped in glorious pink paper that I will cut into shapes to adorn my fridge. I even raise an amused eyebrow at the Pinsentry Reader Package Without a Note. Pater will never understand that you cannot send anything, not even the most inconsequential thing, to another country without so much as a note. ESPECIALLY the most inconsequential thing. I mentioned this once, and he attached a post-it to the next one that read, “Here is note as requested.” I do not think he meant it to be funny.

English for Starters will lie untended on my desk for the rest of the morning. But it doesn’t matter, because Jihane on my right is browsing pictures of her wedding venue, which she is going to have done out in lime green and fuchsia (Lime Green!! and Fuchsia!!), and to my left Alex is playing virtual backgammon, occasionally stealing peanuts from my supply and passing them back inscribed with cordial insults.

Nelly calls, and I am uncharacteristically warm and fuzzy.