By Philip Lear

    Sorting mail was a smooth fluid activity. To watch a good sorter was like watching an athlete. There was that quick glance at the envelope and in the same motion, the flip into the box. For Jack, the rhythmic repetition was like meditation. He could forget about everything and the day would pass quickly.

    But today was slightly different. In the sorting station next to his was a new arrival. And though distracted by her, he tried to go about his business as usual. But she was standing only a few feet from him gracefully swaying as she put letters into the adjoining group of mailboxes. Her fingers were long and thin and her nails polished. She had a delicate way of placing the letters in the pigeonholes as though she were decorating each one. As he watched more closely, he saw that she was placing every letter on edge with the return address facing outward in the top corner.

    She was attractive and had a scrubbed look about her. If she were ten years younger, she could have passed for that Rumanian gymnast. What was her name? Was it Nadia? Her sandy hair was neatly pulled back and her lips were full and under her loose pink sweater he could see her breasts swinging gently.

    Watching out of the corner of his eye Jack could feel himself getting more distracted. He thought about what it would be like to be with a neat-looking woman like that. People had told him that he wasn't bad-looking though over the years, he had put on a few pounds and his hair was thinning.

    Would she want to be with me? He thought. When it came to meeting women Jack was lacking in confidence. He would have liked to strike up a conversation but words didn't come easily to him. He didn't want to sound awkward. Being rejected would be horrible. So he said nothing.

    Minutes passed and he remained silent and with each passing minute he could feel a barrier growing. He was disgusted with himself. Another missed opportunity, he thought.

    Finally he blurted out, "You, you're new here. Aren't you?"

    She nodded.

    "I'm Jack and I've been working here for five years. I'm an old hand at this stuff, " he said confidently.

    "My name's Betsy," she said in a rather soft voice. "The temp agency sent me over this morning."

    Ah. a temp, he thought. Was it worth the effort? He'd get to know her and soon she'd be gone. Well, it still might be fun to get to know her. She was attractive and had a nice clean look. Maybe they could meet some time after work and go for drinks or to a movie. He continued the conversation.

    "It's not that bad a place to work. It’s not exciting, but nobody bothers you here either."

    " Five years," she repeated. "That’s a pretty good run. I’ve never worked anywhere for more that a year."

    " Where did you work before you came here?" he asked.

    " Over at Taylor Shoe on fifth. The shoe factory."

    "What kind of shoes do they make?" Jack asked.

    " Men’s safety shoes. They were big padded shoes with steel toes."

    " What was it like?"

    " Noisy. You could hardly hear yourself think with those machines clattering. Sometimes I could even hear them in my sleep. "

    " What did you do there?"

    She paused for a minute as she grabbed a new bunch of letters.

    " I worked folding the laces inside the shoes. Each lace had to be threaded through the two bottom eyelets of the shoe, folded four times and then placed inside the shoe under the tongue."

    " Sounds complicated."

    " Not really. There was a pattern to doing it. It wasn't so bad. Actually, It was kind of peaceful doing the same thing over and over. And I did it so that every shoe was perfect.

    "Sounds pretty good," Jack said.

    "But they were always on me to work faster. No matter how hard I worked or how well I folded the laces it didn't matter."

    "Nobody’s like that here," he said. "None of the bosses ever come down here."

    They went on sorting and every so often he'd glance over at her and she'd look back at him. He thought he might have detected a smile that last time. And that made his heart race just a little. He smiled back. He watched her closely as she carefully placed the letters in the boxes. Her arms were thin and white.

    "You know," he suggested casually, " You don't have to place each letter on end like that. It's easier if you just flip them in the pigeonholes. There's a knack to it. Watch me. It's all in the wrist."

    To show his technique, he sorted about ten letters in a few seconds.

    " You see how easy it is."

    " But that's my point," she said. " It's what I was telling you about the shoe factory. I want to make sure each letter is placed exactly. It would be terrible if someone picked up their mail and one of the letters wasn't facing up. What would they think?"

    " Letters in a mailbox! Nobody cares. It doesn’t matter to them."

    "But I care," she replied. "I want everything to be right."

    "What do you mean by everything? Everything can’t be perfect."

    " It's important to me," she said insistently.

    Goofy, he thought, how people get so wrapped up in the small stuff. His ex, Carolyn was like that too. She wanted perfection. With her it was cleaning. When they were first married it wasn’t that bad. She might spend a few hours each day cleaning. But as the months went by, gradually she needed to clean more.

    And it was only a one-bedroom apartment. She’d Scrub the corners, the walls, and the floors- everywhere. She spent most of her life cleaning imaginary dirt. And then what did she have to show for all that work? Nothing. It wasn’t like she was baking a cake or knitting a sweater.

    In the morning she'd roust him out of bed at five-thirty so she could clean, shower and do her hair even though she didn't have to be at work till nine. At night she’d come home, cook dinner, scrub the dishes and clean the kitchen. But every night she’d clean the walls, the floor. She’d empty the cabinets and wash the insides. Then she’d do the living room. He couldn’t sit in peace and watch TV. She’d dust the lamps and the end tables and the desk. She’d vacuum the carpet, the couch and the chairs. Then she’d go on to the bathroom where she’d wipe down every inch of the walls and floor. She’d remove the bottles from the medicine cabinet and wipe down the shelves. And then it was on to the closets where she’d pull out every shirt, coat, jacket and shoe.

    But that wasn’t enough. As time went on and her need to clean increased, she couldn’t keep up. There weren’t enough hours in the day. Yet she couldn’t stop.

    When he asked her if she'd always been like that she didn’t want to talk about it. He thought that something must have happened to make her like this. But it could also have been how she was wired. And when he’d press her she’d get impatient with him. ‘I don’t have time to talk. There’s too much work to do.’

    He tried to stop her. He’d sit her down and reason with her to make her see that all this cleaning wasn’t necessary, but she wasn’t buying any of it. Eventually she had to quit her job because she didn’t have enough time to clean. At the end. She was cleaning seven days a week twenty-four hours a day.

    She asked, then begged and pleaded with him to help her with the cleaning. ‘I’m over my head with this cleaning. Can’t you see?’

    And When he refused she began to cry.

    "I’m trying to keep the place nice for us and you won’t help?’

    Her sadness turned to anger and then to rage. Much as he loved her he knew he had to leave.

    Yet despite the disaster with Carolyn he couldn't deny that he was now attracted to Betsy. Maybe Betsy was like that too, he thought. But maybe not so extreme. And why was he drawn to anyone like that? There were other women out there. And even though he was shy he could have found someone.

    But just working there, standing along side her, listening to her breathing he felt for her and hungered to know her.

    "I was just wondering," he asked, " Are you an early riser?"

    She looked at him quizzically. "Yes, I get up at five. That way I can clean my room, shower and do my hair. Why do you ask?"

    "You’re very neat." he added.

    He saw a little color rising in her beautiful pale cheeks.

    "Down here I didn't think anyone would notice."

    "I noticed," he said smiling over at her.

    " I'm just the opposite," he said. "I get up at seven shower and eat breakfast and I'm here for eight."

    " That's OK," she said. " Most people aren't like me."

    "You remind me of someone I used to know," he said.

    She turned and asked, "Was she a lot like me?"

    "She cared a great deal about being neat.."

    Her head lowered slightly. Was that a look of sadness ? He wondered. There I’ve gone and done it.

    "Was it something I said?" Jack asked.

    "No, it's me," she said. "It's just the way I am. I can't help it. The world comes at me too fast and I have to keep organized."

    In all those years with Carolyn he never understood her and felt he’d failed her. He loved Carolyn but couldn’t help her. All he could do was watch her self destruct. But maybe this time it would be different.

    "Betsy, it’s almost lunch time. There's a luncheonette around the corner. We could grab a bite there."

    She didn’t respond immediately .

    "It’s a nice clean place," he added.

    She looked across at him and smiled.

    " I'd like that very much, Jack" she said.

    Red alert! Red alert! He should have heard alarms going off, but all he could hear was his heart pounding.