It came through the post. Something so rare and mysterious. Not advertising, not flyers, not junk mail. An envelope. Stiff. Proper. Cream colored. His name and address scrawled in precise cursive on the front. A red stamp of an old biplane in the right hand corner. He held it in his hand. The envelope was slightly textured. Not exactly smooth in his hand, like a million tiny tiny ripples, teeny tiny waves rippling against his skin. Why the urge processed him, he did not know, but he brought it close to his nose. Inhaled the rippled papyrus It smelt faintly of lavender and perhaps pine. Sort of a blend between fancy soap and Christmas. He turned the envelope around to open it. The flap sat flush against the back. There was purchase for his fingers to tear open, which suddenly and strangely felt to what primal? Savage? Heathen like? For such an action. He made his way into the kitchen. Searched the drawers for a pea ring knife to make the delicate incision across the top of the envelope. And wondred, why in gods name had he not ever thought to buy a proper letter opener.