So Much to Burn烧不完的邮件

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My neighbor is burning his mail again. My neighbor is a postman so his mail is not the mail he receives but the mail he delivers， or the mail he should be delivering but instead is burning. We live in a duplex and I can smell the smoke， seeping through the walls. I bake a pie， which is a thing I do when the postman is burning his mail or when I miss Jane. I bake a pie but my apartment does not smell like pie. My apartment smells like burning envel-opes and I am alone. I go next door. I bring the pie—in case you need a break， I tell the postman. He is thinner than last time and I am fatter. The postman says he has no time for breaks. He cannot burn his mail fast enough. Towers of mail are stacked1 on the counters， the coffee table， the mantle2. Coupons are scattered across the floor. The fireplace crackles and churns. The postman sticks in hospital bills， report cards， appeals to alumni to give back. He says the investigators from the post office are closing in. I did not know they existed. I ask the postman if I can help. He says there is a reward for leads on the missing mail. I can turn him in3 if I need the cash. I do， but I won’t. I owe the postman too much. He was the one who let me know Jane was having an affair. She was writing love letters to her pharmacist. On the return address she took his last name as her own. The postman was suspicious. Then there was an accident down at the post office; a machine tore open a letter. This was also suspicious. The postman read the letter， though he did not let me read the letter. He said that would be illegal. I suspect he was shielding me from the particular details. Anyway Jane left and I am alone baking pies and imagining particular details.

我的邻居又在烧他的邮件了。（剩余5346字）