Work Text:
Himani's assistant has a hot date and wants to leave early so he can spend more time panicking. He is shifting from foot to foot and nervously offering to do non-urgent tasks, hoping she'll say no.
"I could do the mail pile," he says hopefully.
"Leave it, Huw," Himani says. "Go home. Enjoy your evening. Just come in early tomorrow." She only hopes his new chap's nicer than the last one.
Huw packs up with considerable alacrity, and Himani, alone in her office, decides that she might as well tackle the mail pile herself.
Elizabeth in reception will have already made sure everything that reached Himani's office was either directly related to her speciality or addressed as for her attention, and Huw picked out all the expected deliveries and known contacts this morning. Most legitimate initial contacts are by email or phone anyway. What remains is a still-considerable assortment of unsolicited letters and parcels.
Himani sets aside the scam letters and fax spam and misdirected charity solicitations for later perusal and starts with the parcels. A well-brought-up child, she knows, always reads the cards before opening the presents, but she is no longer a child, nor responsible for bringing one up, well or otherwise. She picks up the biggest parcel.
It's the usual painting-shaped brown paper package. Framed, from the weight and texture. She carefully removes the paper and mentally catalogues the contents. No cover letter. Contemporary frame (gold-toned acrylic paint), glass, subpar giclée on canvas, from a shoddily colour-profiled reproduction of one of the lesser works of John Frederick Kensett.
On the reverse, an unnecessary backing board attached insecurely to the frame. Screw-on hanging loops with wire attached, not quite level. Two inch label, bulk-printed, black ink on gold-toned gloss paper with adhesive backing, affixed to the frame itself, not the board: PROPERTY OF PINE WOODS MOTOR HOTELS NEVADA LLC.
The backing board is a later addition, Himani decides. The board is not at all securely attached, but to spare her fingernails she uses the staple remover from her desk to gently lever it up.
Between the canvas and its board is a short, unsigned note.
The note, blue biro on torn lined notebook paper, says in untidy block capitals, I'M ALIVE. I LOVE YOU. I'M SORRY.
"Child, which of those things are you sorry about?" Himani asks aloud. She's clasping her hand to her chest. She didn't know people did that outside of theatrical performances or myocardial infarctions, but here she is with her hand over her ribs as though she might need it there to keep her heart from leaping out. As though it's already out there somewhere in the world, pinching bad motel art to send to her like an extremely large postcard.
Himani rereads the note and, for the first time in seven months and six days, begins to laugh.