Coast is once again on the western shore of the Atlantic. {Physically, at least.} Center hasn’t seen any body of water bigger than his bathtub in weeks, if not months. {There’s a big lake within driving distance of you, isn’t there — or does it look close only as seen from a passing airplane?} [It's at Smithville, which is driving distance. I just don't drive that way as often as I'd like.]
Center’s question upon Coast’s return: Do you have mail?
He does.
Her postcard from South Africa arrived at his house today. {The first of the postcards from South Africa . . . Which one was it?} [The one with Mandela's jail cell. Something more than sobering in that picture.] {Indeed. Picturing the reality is outright frightening.}
She doesn’t.
His postcard from Kansas City vanished (once again) in transit to her {current} westernmost home base. {It has invisible company.}
Center envies not only her travels, but her postal karma. {Don’t. I’m awaiting four paychecks.} [I'm down to waiting for one.]
Coast and Center, sharing Godot as a postman.
