big black bulky one—the scariest motherfucker of the bunch—spun an
intricate gossamer in one corner of her Nike shoebox. Roger pointed it
out with his pinky finger, traced the fine strands to their center and made
the kids understand: this is beauty, this is the real art.
I imagine him saying it now as I pull into the Smithson Trust lot,
my tires crunching over salt and ice—“Those snowflakes are mimicry,
Nance. And not even the talented kind.”
Roger that.
The car locks with a beep and I prepare myself before setting the
mistle-toe swinging. It’s 8:55 am and the last thing I want to do is deposit
checks all day, open accounts, make small talk. Since late August, the girls
have been extra-touchy with me. Since that day when the frogs started,
the end-of-summer peepers—them and the crickets outside our screened
porch, rubbing away at themselves a cacophony of evening sound. When
that season changed, bid Fall in. When Roger packed up his bird houses
and left, just in time for the new school year. Since that day, the girls
have been touchy and I know it’s because I’m alone now. I’m not stupid.
I carry an aura with me, I must. It rankles in the air above my head and
turns my face sour and I know that’s why they steer clear.
I print a receipt and the sound is like those crickets, ratcheting.
Total balance: $152.85. Some young kid, about my Lydia’s age. His
hair is cut so short I can see the scalp underneath; he needs a hat in this
weather.
“You should get a hat. It’s getting colder.”
He pockets the receipt and smiles at me, being polite. “Yeah,
especially for this weekend. I’m hitting the slopes at Alpine. There’s
supposed to be a lot of fresh powder.”
I smile back, maybe a little too slow.
LOCAL BANK TELLER FREEZES MID-TRANSACTION,
STUCK WITH STINK-FACE INDEFINITELY.
Linda—the butchy one—brushes up against me, leans her breasts
right against my back as she bends down to borrow a deposit slip, to dig
her big meaty hands into my Tootsie Roll bowl. She looks at me sideways
and asks about Lydia, how I’m holding up. Her creamsicle top strains at
the edges, rumples right to her neck where her neck rumbles right to her
head, meeting the brown fringe of hair there like a shore from another
planet: pale beach meeting dirty sea. The color is all wrong for Christmas.
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