The Bank Teller

By Sarah Hutchins

The bank teller stares at me as she takes my deposit. “You look cute today.”

“Thanks.” Self-consciously, I touch my wool scarf before slipping my gloved hand into my charcoal peacoat. In the months I’ve visited this bank, she’s always been cold. Instead of smiling hello, she usually smirks and flips her hair over one slender shoulder. Today, her manicured hands work automatically and, as though she’s solving some puzzle, her long-lashed eyes narrow at me and her pink mouth twists.

Finally, she smiles assuredly, hands me the receipt, and says, “But I suppose everyone looks cute bundled in winter clothes.”