Moose and Goose

Chapter Seventy-nine

"I'm sorry, sir. If you'd like, I can go get my boss, and he can," she stops again but sucks a breath through clenched teeth when he bangs his fists on the counter.

"I don't want no 'nother wench to get here and tell me sorry," he yells. The couple walk out of the line with the man guiding her to the exit, his arm around her waist and her hands on her stomach.

"Sir, I'm the only colored woman working tonight. He's a white man, and he's in the back room right now if you'd like me to get him," she calmly tells him, and he shuts his eyes, taking a breath.

"I'm going home to call my daughter. If her mother's dead, you'd best pray your way to heaven because I'll be here with a gun and a rope." He slams a nickel on the counter as his final act of intimidation, a glare practically engrained across his peaches and cream face.

He turns his back to her and looks Walter up and down, then strolls past him. Walter watches the ornery man leave the quaint post office with the envelope and paper bending in his tight grasp, and Sheryl slides the nickel onto her side.

"I'll always commend you women. I think we men are more emotionally driven in times like this." Walter approaches the counter with his dirt-stained hat in both hands in front of his abdomen. She glares over the top of her small glasses, and he smiles. "You know, I always found your eyes to be as beautiful as the big tree near Lincoln lake."

"You must think I was born yesterday. I know you've probably told that same line to every woman you came 'cross," she assumes after sucking her teeth. "Listen, hotshot, give me your name so I can see if you have any mail."

"I don't. I just come here to see you." She rolls her eyes, confident she's heard it all before. He looks over his shoulders then leans against the counter when he sees they're alone. "What time you heading home?"

"I got fifteen minutes left." She straightens her posture and scans him with his eyebrows lifted in skepticism. "What you asking for?"

He grips the left of his suit jacket and pulls it back, showing his silver flask tucked in his pocket. Finally, she grins and looks him in the eyes.

For the remainder of her shift, she hands boxes and envelopes— love letters, messages of sick family members, and cash the recipients would walk across the dirt road to the bank— and Walter sat near the door watching her with a grin, confident he's found someone special.

He walks her out of the door, and as the wind lifts dust storms, she tosses her arms around herself. He flings his hat on his head then draws his coat off his back. He sits it on her shoulders, and she blinks back, scrunching her face.

"Jesus, what's that smell?" She drops her arms and slides the jacket into her arms, staring at him in disgust.

"Most likely, my sweat." Her expression shifts to neutral, and she shoves his suit jacket against his chest. He holds it in his arms and watches her walk away, then he follows her.

The sky is dark, the full moon is high, and only one star paves the road with a faint white glow. They reach a small neighborhood of rustic houses with shattered windows and broken storm doors, chipped siding, and dogs barking in the distance.

Sheryl peeks over her shoulder when she hears gravel crunching, stops in front of a yard with grass that reaches her knees then turns to him.

"Listen, I don't know what you want from me," she begins, her voice quivering as she trails his thin frame with her bouncing eyes. "But I'm not interested, okay? I had a long day, and I just wanna be left alone."