Post by derek on Apr 17, 2016 23:16:59 GMT
((This is a half-baked idea that sprung to mind the moment I read the prompt. I just wrote it out quick--let's see what y'all think!))
He looks at me.
God, I hate when he looks at me. I'm not even next in line—there's, like, five people in front of me. He's even helping someone—an old lady with a (very) bright pink blouse on and earrings to match. He's wearing this false smile that only someone who works with people all day can develop, and he is speaking to her politely. His eyes are on hers.
Yet, every so often, he glances over here.
It's short. Hardly a second or two. But it's enough. I ensure to never make eye contact, but he's not exactly subtle. He'll turn, to file some paperwork or access the computer, and his eyes will flash at me. Pale blue eyes. Not bright enough to attract me, nor dim enough to repulse. Just enough for me to feel them.
I hate coming to this bank.
I grew up in a small town that I never really left, and this is the only branch for several miles in any direction. I'm not driving that far just to deposit a check. I can deal with a little awkwardness in my day, I can handle it.
There it is. He looks at me again, just before smiling at the woman, nodding, and telling her to have a great day. He's definitely looking at me.
I'm deliberately not looking at him. I flick a hand through my hair and stare at the table with the pens with string on the back rest. One is broken, I realize. That's a shame.
I look back up, and he's helping a burly man in a dirty shirt. Four more in front of me. He greets the burly man, but he does not make eye contact. No, he's looking at me. I can see it—he's thinking. There's two tellers today (despite there being five windows). He's trying to figure out how he can get me to go to his window. I don't want to go to his window.
The other teller, a middle-aged woman, calls “Next,” and the next person in line approaches. He looks up at the call. A tiny smile.
He looks at me.
His eyes meet mine.
I look away first.
For a while, his awkward flirtations were flattering in a way. I'm in my 30s, a single woman in a small town. I keep to myself and prefer a good book over company. I am perfectly content to be single for the rest of my life. But even still, to have a guy (even one as bland as this one) express interest in you, even if poorly concealed and rather blatant, was enough for a self-esteem boost. But then, it got irritating.
Every time I came in, he would tell a joke that isn't funny (“What's worse than a worm in your apple? The Holocaust!”) or he would compliment something odd (“Those shoes really bring out your eyes.”). It's awkward now, because his voice is just a bit louder than necessary for the setting, and I know that everyone can hear his pathetic attempts at flirting. It's just calls unwanted attention to me, when I really just want to deposit my check and move on.
Woman Teller calls another person over. Two to go.
I'll admit, I let it get to me. I started coming to the bank at odd times, working to figure out when I could come where he wouldn't be there. I tried early mornings, but apparently I got him just as he got in. I tried evenings, and managed to catch the end of his shift (“You headed home?”). I gave up after a few weeks, and just accept the fact that he's there now, almost all times.
Woman Teller calls again. The two in front of me are apparently a father/daughter or a really creepy age difference. I'm next.
He looks at me again. His fake smile shifts a bit into a genuine one, that morphs down into a frown. The burly man in front of him is saying something about the numbers being wrong, and he turns back to the screen. I can tell by the way he swipes the mouse that he's hurrying.
His smile returns as he explains in a tone I know he uses for the mentally challenged. I breathe through my nose, shifting my weight awkwardly. I reach into my purse and run my fingers over the paycheck, feeling it burn a bit on my skin but not give a papercut. The father/daughter seem to be making a first deposit. The woman is smiling. The young girl is returning it, giving a little awkward laugh. Dad congratulates here and tells her how easy it is.
The corners of my mouth twitch up.
The burly man bangs his fist on the table, not shouting, but speaking in a frustrated, exasperated tone. I can see him put his hands up, the facade gone and now full irritation turns his mouth. He looks at me, as if checking to see if I'm still there. His pale blue eyes meet mine.
He looks away first.
The father claps his daughter on the back, and she gives a little smile. I can tell she doesn't want to be babied, but at the same time, she is pleased with herself for depositing something. The woman teller hands something through the window.
He looks at me. He knows.
I'm smiling.
The man continues to insist that there's some mistake.
Father and daughter go to leave.
He looks at me.
I'm grinning.
The woman speaks. “Next!”
I have dodged a bullet.
He looks at me.
God, I hate when he looks at me. I'm not even next in line—there's, like, five people in front of me. He's even helping someone—an old lady with a (very) bright pink blouse on and earrings to match. He's wearing this false smile that only someone who works with people all day can develop, and he is speaking to her politely. His eyes are on hers.
Yet, every so often, he glances over here.
It's short. Hardly a second or two. But it's enough. I ensure to never make eye contact, but he's not exactly subtle. He'll turn, to file some paperwork or access the computer, and his eyes will flash at me. Pale blue eyes. Not bright enough to attract me, nor dim enough to repulse. Just enough for me to feel them.
I hate coming to this bank.
I grew up in a small town that I never really left, and this is the only branch for several miles in any direction. I'm not driving that far just to deposit a check. I can deal with a little awkwardness in my day, I can handle it.
There it is. He looks at me again, just before smiling at the woman, nodding, and telling her to have a great day. He's definitely looking at me.
I'm deliberately not looking at him. I flick a hand through my hair and stare at the table with the pens with string on the back rest. One is broken, I realize. That's a shame.
I look back up, and he's helping a burly man in a dirty shirt. Four more in front of me. He greets the burly man, but he does not make eye contact. No, he's looking at me. I can see it—he's thinking. There's two tellers today (despite there being five windows). He's trying to figure out how he can get me to go to his window. I don't want to go to his window.
The other teller, a middle-aged woman, calls “Next,” and the next person in line approaches. He looks up at the call. A tiny smile.
He looks at me.
His eyes meet mine.
I look away first.
For a while, his awkward flirtations were flattering in a way. I'm in my 30s, a single woman in a small town. I keep to myself and prefer a good book over company. I am perfectly content to be single for the rest of my life. But even still, to have a guy (even one as bland as this one) express interest in you, even if poorly concealed and rather blatant, was enough for a self-esteem boost. But then, it got irritating.
Every time I came in, he would tell a joke that isn't funny (“What's worse than a worm in your apple? The Holocaust!”) or he would compliment something odd (“Those shoes really bring out your eyes.”). It's awkward now, because his voice is just a bit louder than necessary for the setting, and I know that everyone can hear his pathetic attempts at flirting. It's just calls unwanted attention to me, when I really just want to deposit my check and move on.
Woman Teller calls another person over. Two to go.
I'll admit, I let it get to me. I started coming to the bank at odd times, working to figure out when I could come where he wouldn't be there. I tried early mornings, but apparently I got him just as he got in. I tried evenings, and managed to catch the end of his shift (“You headed home?”). I gave up after a few weeks, and just accept the fact that he's there now, almost all times.
Woman Teller calls again. The two in front of me are apparently a father/daughter or a really creepy age difference. I'm next.
He looks at me again. His fake smile shifts a bit into a genuine one, that morphs down into a frown. The burly man in front of him is saying something about the numbers being wrong, and he turns back to the screen. I can tell by the way he swipes the mouse that he's hurrying.
His smile returns as he explains in a tone I know he uses for the mentally challenged. I breathe through my nose, shifting my weight awkwardly. I reach into my purse and run my fingers over the paycheck, feeling it burn a bit on my skin but not give a papercut. The father/daughter seem to be making a first deposit. The woman is smiling. The young girl is returning it, giving a little awkward laugh. Dad congratulates here and tells her how easy it is.
The corners of my mouth twitch up.
The burly man bangs his fist on the table, not shouting, but speaking in a frustrated, exasperated tone. I can see him put his hands up, the facade gone and now full irritation turns his mouth. He looks at me, as if checking to see if I'm still there. His pale blue eyes meet mine.
He looks away first.
The father claps his daughter on the back, and she gives a little smile. I can tell she doesn't want to be babied, but at the same time, she is pleased with herself for depositing something. The woman teller hands something through the window.
He looks at me. He knows.
I'm smiling.
The man continues to insist that there's some mistake.
Father and daughter go to leave.
He looks at me.
I'm grinning.
The woman speaks. “Next!”
I have dodged a bullet.
