Can't complain she said, her voice barely audible above the ruckus of stapling and clicking from behind the office window. Of course there is my back. The Post Master slowed his stamping. To ignore the comment would bring minutes of blissful silence, to show interest would be nothing less than slow death. But sometimes, he thought, staring death in the face is perhaps preferable to passing your days with nothing but stamp books and the dull clunk of a second hand for company. Others have sports cars and roller coasters he surmised, I have old women. Oh yes, and what's wrong with your back?
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