It's seven minutes past nine. I look out of the window and then back at the clock that's hanging over the door. It's eight minutes past nine. He's usually here by now. In my mind, I go over all the things that could have happened to him. A car accident, a mugging, fallen down a man hole, in hospital being diagnosed with melanoma, the list goes on.
I see him now. He's walking towards the house. I watch him approach. He reaches the door. The letterbox rattles as two envelopes are pushed through. I eagerly scoop up the post. He is already walking back to his shiny, red Royal Mail van. The screaming metal death-trap. Rather him than me.
I know the chances that he won't make it to the end of his round while I remain safe in my home. I know where I'd rather be. Right here in my dressing gown and comfy slippers.
I head back up the stairs, holding the letters carefully. Just a couple of bills, nothing too important.
I reach the top of the stairs and my foot slides away from me on the carpet. I'm falling backwards. I can't believe it. This isn't fair.
I knew there was a thirty-two percent chance that something like this could happen but I was so careful. I barely feel my body hitting something hard. So careful. I hear a noise, it sounds like a snap. Always so careful. Everything fades away. I was careful.
