POST TRAUMATIC

A group of local writers that I meet with, each month select a topic for their next session. February's choice was not one but two subjects, Lost and Lust, and the following piece is my response to this brief.

PLEASE MISTER POSTMAN

He went online and used his card. One click or two secured the deal. The purchase was a simple thing. He sat back, waited for the mail. 
Online, it said: three days at most. In plain brown wrapping she would come. Miss Lust, with flaxen hair so real, big sexy breasts, curvaceous bum. 

He waited for her to arrive. 
Online again, he bought her clothes: a nurse’s uniform, a nun’s. Then, oh so carefully he chose: some scarlet shoes with platform heels, black stockings with amazing seams, a bra and pants set made of silk: all for the lady of his dreams.

He changed the bed, polished and swept, counted off minutes on the clocks, brought out the Hoover, dusted down, got a haircut, changed his socks.

Two days went by. The house was clean. He waited for the post to come. The mail-van passed his gate at speed. He sat in silence, looking glum. 

Next day went by but still no post. Bra, pants and shoes lay, one, two, three, upon his bed beside her clothes and uniforms, dejectedly.

One week elapsed, and then the next. He grew emaciated, pale. Could hardly bring himself to eat. At night, he’d toss and turn and wail. Hot hormones raged, emotions churned. His dreams of passion turned to dust. He had to face the dreadful truth. The Royal Mail had lost Miss Lust.