The other day at the post office there was a long line so I went to one of the self-service kiosks. I had just started my transaction when a burly, bearded man pushed the post office door open – he was whistling like a tea kettle.
As I pressed the kiosk screen he peered over my shoulder; the air from his whistling moved my hair.
“Need help?” I grimaced.
He shook his head, “No,” and the whistle lifted up and I recognized the Phil Collins’ tune, “Against All Odds.”
“Phil Collins,” I said knowingly as I picked up the receipt from my kiosk, and I hummed a nasty line from “In the Air Tonight.”