Il Postino mi Amore

From the very moment I saw him I knew I was made for him, and he for me.

That sounds overly dramatic, I know, but it’s the damned truth.

I don’t recall the day of the week, but I know it was some time early in the year as I was wearing my favorite navy coat adorned with a brooch I had made using a toy rubber octopus. I had recently started working at what is still my place of employment.
It was over my “lunch hour” (Which is never really an hour and is most usually a “working lunch,” meaning I never eat a hot meal in a leisurely manner because I have to answer the phone and tend to clients during my lunch. Unless I can slip out. Which I had managed to do on this particular day.) and up until that moment, I was in a piss-poor mood. I had hurried from work to the bank and then on to the post office to mail a package to a friend…or maybe it was a package going to a customer of my fledgling art jewelry business (shameless plug:
As I entered the post office I was met with something I had not ever experienced.
A strange, new feeling of certainty.
A new longing.
I looked toward the area where the postal clerks were working and I saw the most handsome devil I had (and have) ever laid eyes upon. Dark, nearly jet black hair styled into a pompadour, he had so many tattoos on his arms–I couldn’t help but stare. I wanted to trace every line, to know every story behind every image on his flesh.
I felt starry-eyed and stupid as I stared at him, and quickly averted my eyes before he caught my stare.
I shuffled through the line, nervously hoping I would be lucky enough to be called upon by this fellow. The suspense nearly suffocated me.
“Next in line.”
Of COURSE the next available clerk when I arrived at the front of the line was a guy I liked to refer to as “Bugs Bunny” (due to his large central incisors that would glare out from under his grey mustache). “Bugs” liked to talk a lot about nothing in particular, and generally speaking, once he began blabbing to his captive audience it was impossible to get him to shut up. Now, I’m from the midwest and at that time I was still somewhat polite to strangers, so on this particular day I let this guy prattle on about…whatever…while I (probably not so) surreptitiously stole glances of the handsome postman working to my left.
Where had this guy been all of my life?
I’m not someone to believe in love at first sight, but if you could only have known the pang I felt leaving the post office that day, you’d be a believer, too.
Ah, but let me give you a bit of my background.
At the time I was in an unhappy relationship (that I was trying so hard to make work for some stupid and unknown reason) with a man whom I mistakenly thought I had loved years earlier, but certain life events that occurred over the course of our relationship had proven to me that he did not necessarily love me.
For example, he moved two states away from me two weeks after we buried my mother. For his ‘career.’ (He later admitted he was unable to handle the way I was dealing with my mother’s death. I later realized it wasn’t just the way I dealt with my mother’s illness and passing…he was unable to ‘deal’ with me on any level at all.) 
Two years after that, I moved from Texas to Rhode Island to be with this same man (who absolutely refused to let me bring my dog with us–Laddie ended up living with my father in Kansas) and realized, upon my arrival, that I had made a horrible mistake. I fled to New York city to live with friends after he strangled me (yes, you read that part correctly–another tale for another time) and unfortunately, as abusers do, he wormed his way back in to my life.
Which is how I came to be in Boston.
Glimpsing the handsome postman had stirred something within me.
Something I didn’t know I could feel.
I had never known desire or longing before.
What was even harder for me to wrap my brain around was the fact that I didn’t even know this guy from Adam–fuck, for all I knew he could have been a serial killer in his spare time.
But I didn’t care (and truly, I didn’t think he was a serial killer).
I felt certain we had a connection.
Further visits to the post office only reconfirmed my unwavering belief. Although, further visits to the post office made me feel like a seriously love-struck teenager. The fact that I grinned like an idiot and blushed until I was beet-red any time I saw the handsome postman should have been a dead giveaway. If he had noticed, I had no idea. I assumed he probably had and that thought also made me sweat profusely whenever I saw him.
I learned he grew up in Dorchester; where I was living at the time. (I had the same zip code as his folks!)
I learned he was from a large family.
I learned he was Italian.
I did not, however, learn his name.Not for a long time. I never had the balls to ask him.
So, for the longest time I referred to him as ‘Il Postino’ to my friends and co-workers; all of whom I told regularly: even though ‘Il Postino’ may not be aware of it yet, I was going to marry him.
This I would say jokingly (but with sincere intent)…I was in a relationship and I didn’t know what his ‘relationship status’ was at the time, but, in my own self-deprecating way, I wondered if I would ever get my chance.
With him.
With what I had worked up in my mind’s eye to be our mutual happiness.
Ah, Il Postino.

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