Knock-a-door-run

Anastasia Tischencko 

Mr. Woodler lived in the flat number nine. That was the last habitation at the floor.  And everything in Mr.Woodler's personality could be described with the words that express nothingness.

Just lanky, awkward, middle-aged men with the permanent sad dog face expression. He always wore black tie and loosen it every minute. So that was an impression that Mr. Woodler had not just a piece of clothing but small boa constrictor. He passed his days alone in small flat number nine. Neighbors knew Mr. Woodler as a modest and calm person. And nothing bothered his solitude even posting. Every Sunday postman left at the door the correspondence, and then he knocked as usual and vanished away. That was a real pleasure to Mr. Woodler find out only things he needed, until one day he heard someone's knocking at the door:
- Hello, you must be Mr.Woodler? – loud and vivid voice sounded around the floor.  
- Yes it's me, what can I help you? – asked Mr. Woodler suspiciously.
- Nice to meet you! My name's Paul. I'm your new postman. I've brought the correspondence. Please write your signature to show you've received your stuff.
- Is that obligatory? – asked Mr. Woodler signing paper. He couldn't stand the presence of vigorous postman. He felt puzzling and dissolved.
- Since now, of course!
Those words sounded as a sentence for the further time. When postman was going to left Mr. Woodler dared to ask him last question:
   - Oh, excuse me, mister. But where's the previous postman?
   - I'm very sorry, he passed away on Thursday. – Paul said and went out in silence.
Mr. Woodler was standing full of regret. He thought he will miss his comfortable knock-a-door-run.