The Games People Play

Some ghosts rattle chains. Others wear a Royal Mail uniform two sizes too tight, scanning in like they’ve always belonged. Dionne. Of course it’s Dionne. She doesn’t arrive so much as reinsert herself into my life — like a bad smell with a lanyard — sharp, confident, already talking over someone before she’s even been introduced. The same bossy energy. The same self-assured stride that makes your spine stiffen in self-defence. “Alright,” she says, like we’re old friends. We are not. We worked together years ago. She was insufferable then — too certain, too polished, too convinced she was the main character in a room full of supporting cast members. And somehow… today is no different. Only now she’s wearing red. Because this is how life works, isn’t it? People you didn’t choose just… reappear. Different setting. Same irritation. Red is not her colour. The uniform clings in all the wrong places, as if it’s trying to escape her. Seams tense, fabric pulling across shoulders like even the shirt is ashamed. Trousers hang awkwardly, caught between ambition and denial. She looks like a highlighter pen that’s learned how to judge people. And me? I’ve been tasked with showing her the ropes. Of course I have. Because the universe thinks it’s a hilarious fucker. We set off on the loop. From the very first step, it’s not a job — it’s a competition. An unspoken, petty, deeply unnecessary endurance sport fuelled entirely by ego. Passive-Aggressive Postal Sprinting. She walks faster. I walk faster-er. She sorts mid-stride. I sort mid-stride while mentally drafting my resignation letter — and potentially, my obituary. At one point, I’m half-convinced she’s delivering letters through sheer intimidation — staring letterboxes down until they open out of fear. “Efficiency is key,” she says, not looking at me. “Is it?” I reply. “I thought it was not traumatising the public.” She doesn’t laugh. She never laughs. That would be too human. Each loop becomes a silent competition. We don’t acknowledge it, which somehow makes it worse. There’s a moment — brief, humiliating — where I consider jogging. Jogging. On a postal round. For her. This is who I am now. She beats me back to the van. Of course she does. “Where were you?” she pants dramatically, hand on chest like she’s just completed a marathon across the Sahara. “I’ve been waiting hours.” Hours. She’s sweaty — glistening, even. Like boiled pork left under interrogation lighting. “I stopped to do the job properly,” I say. She smiles. Not warmly. Not kindly. Just… recorded. Filed. Logged for future use. We attempt small talk. It dies immediately. Her words come out sharp — each sentence honed to a point, like she’s trying to whittle me down with conversation alone. She clearly hates me. And the feeling is… comfortingly mutual. We did try, once. To be friends. God help us. She invited me over for drinks — last minute, casual, like she’d remembered I existed halfway through pouring the wine. The moment I stepped inside, I realised what it was. This wasn’t a visit. It was a presentation. A casual flex, a humble brag. Her house was immaculate. Too immaculate. Not a single trace of human life lived inside it. No photos. No colour. No chaos. No soul. Just walls that looked like they’d never been leaned on. Furniture that feared human contact. A house staged for a life she only admired from afar. Except the downstairs toilet. Spotless. Clinical. Almost aggressive in its cleanliness. Until — just beneath the rim — a single skid mark. Tiny. Almost imperceptible. But unmistakable… a shit mark. I paused. Took it in. Let it settle. And then — quietly, privately — I smiled. Not so perfect now, eh, Dionne? Your house shits too. She spent most of the evening complaining about her husband — how he worked too much, earned too much, existed too loudly. I nodded. Sipped. Waited for something — anything — human to appear. It didn’t. When I left that job, she gave me flowers. They smelled strongly of piss. Not a faint whiff. Not a subtle scent. Pungent. Unignorable. Straight in the bin. A fitting end, really. And yet — here we are again. Because some people don’t leave your life. They just… change uniforms. At the end of the day, we clear the van. Empty. Quiet. For a brief moment, there’s peace. “It’s always satisfying to see an empty van,” I say, attempting civility. A bridge. A limp olive branch. “Yeah,” she says, without missing a beat. “I did a good job.” Ah. There it is. The royal I. The quiet erasure of “we.” On the way back, we see him. Karl. Pushing a shopping trolley down the street like it’s the last thing tethering him to the world. An old colleague. Laura’s husband. Or… not anymore. Dionne rolls down the window. “Karl!” she calls, “What are you doing out here?” He looks… hollow. Like life itself has stabbed a straw inside him and sucked his soul clean out. “Laura’s thrown me out,” he says. Just like that. No drama. No garnish. Just fact. “I’ve been living out of this,” he adds, nudging the trolley. Inside is… everything and nothing. A life, condensed. “I found this for winter,” he says, pulling out what might once have been a puffa jacket… but now resembles something dredged from the bottom of a canal. Damp. Torn. Questionable. Possibly alive. Jesus. I can’t bear it. “Get in,” I say. Dionne glances at me. For once — once — she says nothing. We load Karl into the van. The three of us. An unlikely trio: An odd little constellation of people who didn't pick each other, but ended up crammed together regardless. Mat is thrilled when we get home. “Friend,” his eyes practically shout. “Temporary,” I say firmly. He nods. But he’s already imagining beers, video games, camaraderie. Bless his lonely socks. Karl settles in. And by “settles,” I mean colonises. He eats exclusively what he calls “chicken nuggies.” Plural. Always plural. Never fewer than twelve. He spends hours in the bathroom — hours — emerging like a man who’s fought something in there and possibly lost. I thought Maxi’s turds were impressive. Karl’s? Otherworldly. Legacy pieces. The hair. Don’t get me started on the hair. It’s everywhere. In the shower. On the floor. In my breakfast this morning. Even in places I’d rather not mention. And the man doesn’t even have long hair anymore. He shaved it off in what can only be described as a Britney spiral. He plays guitar. Endlessly. Sad songs about Laura. About loss. About regret. And for a while, my heart aches for him. It really does. But weeks pass. And something shifts. Compassion… curdles. Patience… thins. And one morning, as I step over a rogue nugget, battle a colossal turd, and extract yet another stray hair from a delicate region, I realise: I am… completely, utterly… Karled out. So we do the kind thing. The necessary thing. The inevitable thing. We pack up his trolley. Walk him to the door. “Take care, Karl,” I say. “Yeah,” Mat adds, softer. Karl nods. There’s gratitude there. And something else. Resignation, maybe. He pushes the trolley away, its squeak echoing down the street like a mournful tune to an empty audience. And just like that… He’s gone. Another person passing through. Another quiet mark left behind. The house feels lighter. Quieter. Ours again. The next day, I’m back at work. Back in red. Back on the loop. And there she is. Dionne. Waiting. Watching. Ready. And it hits me. This is it, isn’t it? This strange, revolving cast of people we never choose — the ones who irritate us, drain us, need us, challenge us — they’re not accidents. They’re intrusions. Lessons. Mirrors we didn’t ask to look into. Because maybe… It’s not just Dionne. Maybe I’ve been racing too. Keeping score. Needing to win. Even when there’s nothing to win. She glances at me. I glance back. For a split second — No edge. No blade. Just… two people. Carrying things. “Ready?” she asks. I take a deep breath. Consider growth. Reflection. Maturity. Yeah… Nah. Screw it. The game is on, bitch.