The envelope had arrived three weeks ago. It was conspicuously placed precisely in the center of the welcome mat outside the apartment door but cocked ever so slightly, as if by an afterthought to give the appearance of a casual disregard for pefrect placement. Her full given name, Eugenia Elaine Cockburn, was cleverly inscribed on the dark red envelope with a gentle, sloping flourish.
Only a handful of people knew Gene’s full given name and most of them were supposedly dead. She eyed the envelope suspiciously and gently prodded it with the toe of her pumps much as she would if she came home to find a dead rat festering on her welcome mat.
She expelled all of the air from her lungs and bent to take the offending envelope. Her hand hovered just above the envelope, testing the surrounding air for heat. Determining that the envelope posed no immediate physical harm to her, she quickly snatched it and jammed it in the pit of her arm, allowing her to fish in her handbag for her keys and unlock her door.
Once inside her apartment, Gene tossed the envelope on the kitchen table and dropped her bag and blazer on the floor. She stared at the envelope for what seemed like hours before turning and walking to the bathroom to draw a bath.
She returned to the kitchen and gave the envelope a passing glance before grabbing a large tumbler. The glass was expertly filled with two large ice cubes and a generous but measured pour of bourbon that could only be perfected by a person who has spent many hours behind a bar serving sympathy in two-finger increments. Her arm moved the glass to her lips in a fashion that indicated she had spent equal time on both sides of the bar and the brown fluid passed quickly between the cubes and down her throat confirming that Gene’s approach to doling out sympathy was more than just cathartic.