Things Best Said

The queue, a line of people standing front to back, felt like being in an elevator to him. He watched as most eyes stayed down, reviewing the tile or carpet beneath their feet. Fat, thin, dark, light. A mishmash of cultures. In a crowd, he thought, everyone eventually looks gray.

At the windows the tellers sat neatly; boy, girl, boy. Each had a cheap name plate, a stack of brochures and pen chained to the countertop, for security.

Industrial carpet and specked hospital tile split the room. The most expensive thing, he thought, would be the safe or the bullet proof glass at the drive through window.

Faces of the tellers, he noticed, blinked an overly dramatized, hopeful look to each customer who approached. Then, when the time came and the customer walked away, the look faded away, too. Eyes would flick to the clock on the wall, chests would exhale. Like a machine starting back to life, the smile would rebuild itself for the next customer.

Docile, he thought.

“I’d rather they take their time and get it right.”

The man turned toward the voice, a woman next to him in line.

He stared at her for a moment. Her makeup perfect. Her voice warm. The thin, v-neck sweater she wore directed his eyes down.

“You said the service is slow…” she reminded him with a smile.

“Right, I just meant that we’re all in here during lunch and it would be nice if they could, you know…” he said.

The woman nodded, looked around “At least it’s not crowded. Must be an off week. Not a pay week, I mean.”

Overhead flouresent tubes hummed, their sound mixed with the murmurs of the room: the tip-tap-tip of a keypad, a hushed conversation, the scuff of feet across carpeting.

“I suppose I don’t know if this is crowded, though. I’ve never been in this bank before.” The woman offered.

“I don’t see the inside of banks much either. Never have much money anyway,” the man smirked as he said it.

The woman smiled back as she waded through an enormous purse. He noticed her clothing; neat, pressed. Everything had some insignia; stamped or embroidered.

“Doesn’t that make your shoulder hurt? Women always carry the biggest purses. ”

She looked up, catching his gaze down into the bag.

“When they’re this size we call them a handbag. My husband used to say it could hold the secrets of the universe it was so big.”

The man watched her hand move in the bag, stealthily past a pocket book, make-up cases. The glint of her bracelet somehow found light and reflected it out of the bag.

In those brief seconds he knew type of car she drove (Range Rover) and the vacations she took (winters in St. Croix). Within seconds he knew all he needed and was attracted to her if only to feel that life for a few lusty seconds.

She smelled nice, too, he thought, as he caught another peek down her v-neck. A withdrawal slip emerged from her bag.

“What’s your husband do?” the man asked, curiosity feigned.

“He worked at one of those big investment companies. You know the ones everyone is so mad at. I guess he did something foolish was about to get caught. Instead he jumped out a window. Thirty-second floor.” Looking him in the eye she finished, “So, nothing. Anymore.”

The man’s jaw went slack.

She preened a speck of lint from the cuff of her sweater. Her mouth didn’t smile, but he was almost sure he saw the muscles in her face tighten, holding back a grin.

“Best thing that could have happened to him. To us. My kids and me.” She finished.

“Next please?” a teller called out and flicked his eyes to the clock on the wall. Exhale.

The man fished a folded slip of paper from his pocket.

Sounds of the room turned a hollow tone. The drive-through window became a distant squawk. The chipper voices of the tellers now flowed like cold syrup in his ears.

The woman looked at the man, offering him the available teller.

He unfolded the wad of paper in his hand, “This is a robbery”. Written moments ago in a hurry. Smudged and childish. The man shifted his weight, in his jacket pocket he could feel the weight of the small pistol he brought.

The teller called out again, the people in line looked up. Fat, thin, dark and light they stared at him. A blink and their eyes darted toward the tellers.

“Honey, it’s your turn,” the woman in the sweater said, “You want this one or what?”

The man looked at her. His eyes felt warm. The sweat on his forehead, he knew, would run down to his eyes soon.

The woman leaned in close, whispering, “Banks are better than convenience stores, they teach them not to put up a fight. I hate being shot at.”

Someone in line coughed. The woman tugged at the waist of her sweater, adjusted her bracelet. She took a long look at the man, smiled and sighed.

“Go home or stay out of the way.” She told him with a glance as she walked away.

As she moved toward the teller the man could hear her say, “I’m sorry to keep you waiting, honey. I hope you can help me with a sizable withdrawal.”