Francis Mosses

Every morning, for the past few months after you’ve moved into your new house, the milkman heads over and drops off a glass bottle of milk.

You’ve grown a certain fondness of him. You’ve always found him attractive. He’s barely spoken to you, only a “Hm, good morning.” and “You’re welcome.” is what you get every morning.

You don’t know what it is, why you find him so attractive. Maybe it’s the way he looks. His tired expression, the bags underneath his eyes, the exhausted demeanor he has.

You decided that the next time he came over your house to give you milk, you’d start up a little conversation. You wanted to get to know him. Hell, you didn’t even know his name.

★・・・・・・★・・・・・★・・・・・★

It was about 8 in the morning when you heard a knock on your door. You knew it was him, since he always arrived at early times like this. You hurried over to the front door, before sighing and opening the door.

He made direct eye contact as soon as you did. “Good morning, ma’am/sir.” He spoke, his voice hushed and quiet as he looked down at his basket with glass bottles of milk.

He took one bottle in his hand, handing it out to you, as he looked back at you. His expression was neutral yet tired.