Unprecedented act of heroism

I'm sat on a chair at the back of a post office. I think I'm drunk. Ten minutes ago I was in a posh restaurant, finishing off bottles of white wine and immersed in one of those never-ending silly toasts (to you, to me, to us, to the world, blah blah blah).
When this lunch was organised I harboured serious suspicions about the fun I would be able to take out of it. I've been at other Christmas dinners with other workmates, and they just don't work. So I had decided beforehand that I would apply myself thoroughly to the bottles to get through it as absently as possible. And the wine did the trick, 'cause I had considerable fun.

The only problem is today is Thursday, and it's 7 pm, and I'm pretty drunk sat on a chair, and this is a post office.

I know I'm drunk because, otherwise, I would be on my feet, and I wouldn't need to hold my head with my right hand to prevent it from falling down. The way I see it, I'm offering a sad sight, but it's great because I don't care too much. My only concern right now is the too handsome middle-aged man that has just come in the post office, and is coming up to me. He shoots me a I-think-we've-met-before look and says:

-Excuse me, have we met before?

Oh my God.

We bloody well haven't met before. I would remember that. Somehow I manage to sit up properly without feeling too sick and open my mouth to say:

-Actually yes, I think we have.

Ok. Technically I'm telling the truth. Suddenly I've got one of those familiar feelings you get with people you haven't seen before (which usually means you would shag them though they're total strangers).

He looks into the distance, frowns and says:

-Do you work in the bank next door?

-No.

-Maybe at school... Do you have any children?

-No.

-Do you live around here?

-No

-Do you play tennis?

(Oh, come on, give me a break!)

He smiles and says "Well, forget it. Hope to see you again".Yeah. Bollocks.

I hear the beep that indicates my turn has come. I feel more cheerful now. I can stand on my feet. I might not have a clue of how to play tennis, but I'm on my feet and I'm sending a parcel. I don't work in the bank next door, but I'm sending something miles away. I don't have any children but I look beautiful today. I'm drunk. I'm on my feet. I'm sending a parcel. Miles away. I'm bloody amazing. Post offices are tremendous.

Traces

A man with silver-colored shoes came to my place this evening. I hadn't seen him before, or his shoes either, but we had arranged to meet, basically to exchange favours: I gave him a couple of empty butane gas cylinders, and he gave me two precious round spaces for whatever I want to do with them. He was very punctual, and I liked that. I mean, I was prepared to give him the canisters, but I didn't want to give any of my time away waiting for an unknown swapper.
So he came- he was a kind old man- said thank you so much, took the canisters and kissed me goodbye. That was sweet, and quite unexpected too, but it was all right. He left all grateful, and only while I was closing the door did I notice that he was wearing those flamboyant shoes.
Then I couldn't wait to make the most of my newly reconquered space on the terrace. So I went there and I found out the floor had been left with two circles, the marks of the cylinder's borders, made of dust, dry leaves and time. I put one foot inside each circle, then I made myself a coffee.
I really came to hate those two canisters, it was like having two fat orange old ladies permanently on the terrace. Sometimes, on rainy nights, I had watched them, standing there, withstanding all the changes weather has to offer, bearing my indifference. Now they're not there anymore, but I thought getting rid of them would make a more substancial difference. I dind't expect, after cleaning the terrace floor, that there would still be marks left.
It's ok, the cylinders are not there, but I will always be able to say they were there, and I won't be less accurate when I say where. And even if I decided to replace the floor tiles, or sell the flat, while we're at it, there will always be the footsteps of the silver-colored shoes, the disturbance of knowing I won't be able to get rid of all the invisible traces stuck to everything left behind.

NY

It rained all day

but the air still smelled of caramelised nuts.

My feet got wet

but I was still able to feel all that love.

And I thought

it was quite a miracle to feel love

in wet socks.