Opening the metal box for the 10th time. Among the bills and ads and mistaken notes for the neighbours, no envelope has the signs my eyes watch for so eagerly. I walk back, up the long staircase and sit, on a chair next to the open door. It has been 10 days since I glued the stamp, 10 days since I had the certificates copied and 10 days since I said goodbye to the big brown letter at the yellow box around the corner.

“Here is a nice offer” said dad the other day. “You’ll learn something you can use, something you will surely find a job with.” I read the offer and it said: “Executive office assistant apprentice”. I swallowed my poached egg and turned the page.

“You could get a degree in science. You were always good at math.” suggested Muriel. I nodded, then shook my head. The only chemistry I knew and wanted to know was the reaction of my brain to freshly brewed caffeine in the morning. More like medicine.

15 days and I thought I knew what it looked like through the small plastic window of the metal letterbox. When it is black, no letters. When it is gray, a few letters. None of them for me.

“Why don’t you write other applications?” asked Jenny two days ago.

“Where to?” I replied, slightly absent-minded. “To some place I do not want to be anyway?”

Cross-armed and reluctant, I looked at Jenny, who continued her questioning:

“What if they do not accept you?”

I take a deep breath. “I don’t know.”

“But you have to know. Why don’t you come and work with me at Fedderson’s and Davenport if it does not work out with your application?”

I close my eyes. “No.”

Day 20 was the first day I actually took out the trash first before heading to watch out for the letters with a beating heart.

On this day, the sight behind the plastic window was brown. Brown? My hand with the key was shaking and when I pulled out the letters some of them fell on the grey-tiled floor.