The Sorting Table at Dawn

I was at the sorting table before the kettle had so much as thought about boiling, which is how I like it. No one under my feet, no one telling me the parcels go flat-side down when any fool can see they go flat-side up.

There is a particular quiet to a sorting room at that hour. The strip light hums. The canvas sacks sit slumped like they have had a long night, which, to be fair, some of them have. I like to walk the length of the table once before I touch a thing, just to take the measure of the day. A postmaster does not simply dive in. He surveys.

I sorted by street, then by sense, then by a feeling in my chest that I have never been able to explain to anyone's satisfaction. It has not failed me yet.

By the time the rest of the office shuffled in, yawning, bumping into the kettle, I already had my satchel packed and my cap set and a look on my face that said I had been up doing something important, which I had.

There is no applause for this. I do not need it. I know what I did, and the table knows, and that is enough for a gull with proper standards.