Stamp

She would send me postcards. I imagined her sitting beside her hotel window at each destination, sparing a moment to write home, a moment to reflect on her travels. As I stared at the picture of rolling mountains or monuments I would visualise her tapping the ash off a cigarette that she smoked only for effect. The sleeve of her shirt would drape lazily off one shoulder and she would flick her disheveled and travelled hair away from her eyes.

I feared reading the cards, knowing that no true picture could be painted with words in such a small space. I would read the sentences twice, decipher her scribble with squinted eyes and lean my body in the direction of the diagonal writing. Her goodbye would come quick and abrupt, running of the page and half covered by the skewed stamp. The kiss and hug symbols would push the card toward my chest and I would close my eyes: dreaming of a faraway place.

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