It is a dubious honor to be the last customer into the post office before the glass doors lock. One by one, a zombie parade of dejected plebeians push their noses against the glass, gnash their teeth, and proffer their precious packages to the heavens hoping for divine intervention.
You can try to ignore them, but they will find your eyes through the security glass and javelin a haunting look that pleads, "Do it! Just open the door from the inside. You're one of us." Anyway, long story short, I may have sold my soul for a roll of stamps.
My name is Nasreen. I write micro essays, one-liners, and other small things. Most of them were funny at some point, at least to me.