Yesterday my friends bought a house

It ended up in my dreams. I was sitting on the floor beneath the window, lost in the icing of a Nanaimo bar from the Tall Grass Prairie Bakery, when the knock came. We all looked at each other. No one moved. The door swung open on its own accord. There stood a letter carrier basked in light, holding a large envelope. Is there a Brenda Schmidt here, he asked. I stopped chewing. We all looked at each other again. Of course there is, he said, answering the silence. She makes everything about her.