Arthur stood before a mountain of cardboard boxes, a roll of packing tape in one hand and a looming sense of dread in the other. Every year, the ritual was the same: the trek to the local post office, the inevitable wait in a line that snaked out the door, and the frantic search for a pen that actually worked.
He taped the label to the box, feeling a strange sense of power. No line. No fluorescent lights. No "next in line, please."
Arthur leaned back in his chair, sipping his lukewarm coffee. Tomorrow, the mail carrier would simply whisk the mountain away from his front porch. He hadn't just bought postage; he had bought back his entire Saturday morning.
