Getting Change

My bank teller’s name is Chris. Every few days, while getting change for my cash drawer mid-shift, I get to see his big green eyes and gregarious smile. He always takes time to re-count my cash for me, pausing in tens. Always looks me straight in the eyes, his slender twenty-something body leaning very close to the counter as he makes sure there is nothing else he can do for me, and that I have a nice week, see me next time. But Chris is nothing more than my teller; everyone’s teller. Much the same way in which the security guard against the east wall is just a security guard who doubles as a greeter.

Banks can be happy places.

I remember the soft hands of my bank teller running all over my body in patterns too perfectly random to recall without the blur of a Vietnam flashback. And for a while, he was mine, or so I imagined. He always smelled of money, though he didn’t have much. Something about the way he looked in a shirt and tie just drove me wild. I’d never liked a man to be too polished before. He turned my world over, running his fingers over my contours, eyes the color of money and envy and lust penetrating my intentions. Insistent, almost desperate kisses.

And then he was gone.

Chris’s eyes are the color of money and his hands are soft. Though I smile when he takes the time to double-count for me, I am aching inside at the reminder.

Banks can be happy places.

For other people.