Maybe some more....

It was early October, the kids were at school, and Zack’s grades were actually improving despite the recent events. I put a sweater on and went out to the curb to check the mail.
I opened the box and dug through the junk mail to find a letter that was clearly addressed to me, Mr. Frank N. Fisher.
It appeared to be a very expensive envelope. Maybe hemp. Expensive by my standards anyway. I don’t know for sure, I can only guess as I would never buy anything that wasn’t plain white and came from the dollar store. My envelopes are used for paying bills, the few that are left that I don’t pay online. Who actually writes a hand written letter anymore? It was once a wonderful and common thing to receive hand written letters. Friends, Family, Christmas cards, updates from far away relatives and they’re growing families, pen pals, those in the military stationed overseas. But now, not so much. We have grown accustomed to technology. E-mails, e-mails, e-mails. And thus was why my curiosity got the better of me when I saw the envelope in my mailbox. Who could be writing me? I haven’t sent away for a Green Lantern ring in quite a number of years. Maybe they’ve been busy. Somehow I think not. I am overcome with the need to smell it. I place my nose just above the letter and inhale deeply. A fragrance. A flower of some kind. I can’t seem to place it. But it’s definitely a rich vanilla scent. Mmmm. It makes the hairs on my arm stand up and I get goosebumps thinking about the last time I remembered that smell. Oh it was from a woman alright. I should have known. A woman for whom I’d loved with all my heart. And probably still would. If she hadn’t killed herself. So how the hell am I holding a note that she wrote. She’s been dead 6 months now. I’m really trying to get a grip with things and move on here. Damn it. I can’t bring myself to open the letter just yet. First I need a drink. Ok. Three. I walk back into the house and lay the envelope down on the counter. But as I'm going to get a glass, it screams to me. “OPEN ME!”. I turn back around, go over and pick it back up. And stare at the blank return label. I toss it down again and hurry over to the freezer. Opening it up to the only thing it’s good for, keeping my liquor good and cold. I grab the Vodka, slam the door shut and pick up a glass and the sweet and sour mix. I make it strong. Three shots of Grey Goose in this one. Stir gently. Pound hardly. Man, that tastes awful, but not nearly as awful as the bad taste I have in my mouth of who’s sick idea it was to send me this letter. People are twisted. I paced around the kitchen twice stopping to look outside once when I heard a car door shut. Stupid neighbors. They want me to mow my lawn. They say it’s getting too tall. Well, I say fuck them. I pay the mortgage here. Besides it’s an Ozone Alert day. Don’t they watch the fucking news. I mix another drink and set down on the bar stool. Studying the envelope. God this is eating me up. I pick it up and smell it again. No mistaken it’s her. I get out my pocket knife and open the blade, sticking the point just under the flap at one end I start to tear it open along the seam, when I hear a knock at the door……….