Scene from a bank

Setting: the ATM near my home. A man has tried to gain access into the bank which won’t open for another twenty minutes.  He walks towards me, jerking a thumb behind.

Man: You waiting for the bank to open.
Me: No.  I’m in line for the ATM.

I  never say “ATM machine”, much like I don’t say “PIN number” or “Chai tea”.

As he walks towards me, he’s peering up at my head.  He’s a great deal shorter than me, by probably a full head.  “What do you do?” he asks.

“What do I do?” It’s a odd question because I’m dressed for work – smartly cut dark red shirt, gray slacks, Mary Jane heels.  It’s like a polite version of “where do you dance.”

“Yeah, what do you do?” he repeats.

“I’m in export controls.”  It’s such a great, vague job title.  It does two things: it says that I’m in a position that is TERRIBLY IMPORTANT, and it also states that it’s far too complicated to bother going into.  It invites the questioner to just accept it, and that alone is the key to happiness.

“You’ve got kitty ears.”

“Oh those.  I’ve been wearing them for seven years.  And they’re fox . ”  The ATM becomes free and I do my business.

I think it’s because my hair is going to be reddish/blond for a while that people are starting to notice the ears more.  They do tend to stand out.

In other news, Boozy McDrinkerton is moving out.

0 thoughts on “Scene from a bank

  1. You’re shunning tautologies! I done learned you well.

    Also, perhaps that bloke was a latent furry, and wanted to ask you out. You should’ve maced him.
    Whether or not you use the spray version, or the spiked iron club version, is entirely up to you.