She frowned. "I'm sorry. Are you an only child?"
"Yes. Probably why I'm close to my mother. It's only the two of us. She had me later in life, and most of my relatives are dead."
"How depressing," Jessica commented before turning to the man who had finished filling out his slip. She changed her tone immediately. "Good morning. Can I help you?" I supposed it was like that for customer service employees. You could be all serious and deep one second, but in the next you had to flip the switch back to "pleasant and cheerful." It was exhausting.
Two more people came in, and I knew our brief chat session would have to wait for a while. Maybe I hadn't found out much about Jessica, but I felt comfortable answering her questions about me. I did a deposit for one gentleman and cashed a check for someone else, but when I glanced up to call over the next person in line, my breath hitched the same as it had the first time I'd seen him. Tristan Carr was walking through the front door. His eyes caught mine, but I couldn't stare when I had someone else to take care of.
"Good morning sir," I greeted an older man with a smile. The whole time I was talking to him about IRAs, I was peripherally aware of the auto mechanic in line. Would I be finished in time to help Mr. Carr? As soon as I said, "I hope you have a nice day," to my customer, I heard Jessica call Mr. Carr over to her window.
Our eyes met again briefly as he moved from the front of the line to her window and my customer walked away. It was a huge disappointment, but if he'd been in on Friday and was back again today, then there was a good chance he did business here often. Maybe the next time I would be able to service his needs.
I giggled to myself as I punched in the account number for my next customer. I was glad when she didn't comment, because I could not explain my internal fantasies about servicing the auto mechanic. If he needed a lube job, I was more than happy to assist. I giggled again.
"Thank you, Mrs. Smith. Have a nice day," I said. She walked away, and the next customer walked up.
It was the cougar from Friday. "You look chipper this morning," she commented.
I guess she had seen me snickering to myself. "Yes, I suppose I am. How about you, Mrs. Snyder?" I asked politely, taking her deposit.
"I'm well, thank you. Did you have a good weekend?" Her eyes on me felt strange. I think it was the way she didn't blink.
"Yes. I painted part of my kitchen." Not that she needed to know the details of my life, but that wasn't revealing. Painting was a task, not personal.
"What color?" she asked.
"It's called Salmon Sunset. I thought it seemed cheery."
She smirked. "You know, the color of one's kitchen says a lot about a person. It's the room we spend most of our lives in, other than the bedroom."
I handed her the receipt. "Oh? Then what does that color say about me?" I was slightly afraid to ask, but I couldn't stop the question from slipping out.
She smirked again. "I think it says you're … happy and carefree." She put her receipt in her purse and winked as she walked away.
The hair stood up on the back of my neck. Happy and carefree sounded like code words for "gay." Did she know, or was she toying with me? Or both?
I straightened my deposit slips and aligned my container of pens with the edge of the window, took a deep breath to cleanse me of Mrs. Snyder's icky vibes, and then called over the next customer.
My breath hitched … again. It was Tristan Carr. Good God, I'd never had such trouble breathing normally before, and my tongue was plastered to the roof of my mouth. Where was a glass of water when I needed one?
I had to clear my throat. "C-can I help you, Mr. Carr?" I asked as steadily as I could. This time I kept eye contact as long as my jittering nerves could stand. His eyes were blue. Dark blue compared to my sky blue.
"You remembered my name," he commented.
"You were just here on Friday. Remembering for a couple days isn't a challenge."
He nodded slightly.
"Weren't you just in here? Jessica helped you." I pointed out. "Did you forget something?"
"As a matter of fact, I did. I need change for my cash box." He took a check out of his pocket and put it on the counter. "May I borrow your pen?"
"By all means," I said, gesturing to the container full at his left.
"I find it interesting that you have a plethora of pens when other tellers have one pen lying in their windows." He filled out the slip and signed it.
"I found a single pen seems to walk off. If I have a bunch, they tend to stick together longer."
"Then I guess he needs to join his friends," Mr. Carr said, smirking. Only, his smirk lacked Mrs. Snyder's smugness. His was more of a whimsical grin. He slid the check to me and deposited the pen into the container … upside down.
I was not about to right the situation in front of him. It could wait. I might seem anal, and not in the way I liked to think about that term. "Did you want this back any certain way?"
"Four rolls of quarters, a roll of dimes, a roll of pennies, and the rest in ones."
"Okay," I said. I punched in the numbers and opened my drawer. "I only have one roll of quarters for some strange reason. If you'll excuse me, I'll just go grab a few more." I locked my drawer and went to the vault, got my quarters and logged the exchange properly, and returned to Mr. Carr.
After I put the quarters in the drawer and left four rolls out for Mr. Carr, I noticed three pens were upside down. That couldn't be right. I blinked and shook off my confusion when Mr. Carr asked, "Is there something wrong?"
I cleared my throat one more time. "What? Um, no. Nothing wrong. Why do you ask?"
"You spaced out for a second as if you were thinking about something."
I couldn't very well explain that my pens weren't nestled correctly. I could fix it after he'd gone. "No. Everything's fine. Do you need anything else?" My hands were shaking, and I wasn't certain whether it was because of the pens or the guy. Mr. Carr made me self-conscious, but those pens wouldn't write properly if the ink ran to the top and not the tip. I could not keep my eyes from darting to the container as I strained to pay attention to my customer.
"I suppose not," he said.
"Then I hope you have a nice day, Mr. Carr," I commented, thinking it was the end of our exchange and I could remedy the situation.
"Tristan," he said.
I blinked. His voice was gentle and his gaze soft. Unexpected heat rolled down my chest and swirled in the pit of my stomach, and suddenly the pens weren't as important as his attention. "Tristan," I affirmed.
He nodded slightly and smiled as he walked away.
My legs nearly gave out, and I steadied myself. I swallowed hard and grabbed a few deposit slips to fan my face. Jessica turned to look at me and asked, "What's wrong with you?"
"Oh, nothing," I said, setting the deposit slips down and flipping the three pens back over. If I was supposed to act businesslike at work, then the customers needed to stop turning me on with a glance.
I HAD an hour for lunch, so I sat in the break room and removed my peanut butter and jelly sandwich from my paper bag. It seemed like a lunch for ten-year-olds, but I didn't exactly make a load of money, and I preferred spending it on redecorating my new place and then maybe on clothes. I could handle cheap lunches.
Mel and I used to eat lunch together, so sometimes we'd go out, but since I'd been eating alone this past week, my pathetic sandwich choices would have to suffice. Maybe I could splurge once a week and eat at a local restaurant, if I could find someone to go with me. I didn't want to be one of those sad guys who dined alone.
My phone buzzed. How are you, dear?
I had done well over the weekend. I'd only texted my mother twice. Fine, I replied. Working here has been seamless so far. It's the same computer system and setup, so I've been happy with it. And I like Westminster, btw. :)
Good. Have you made any new friends?
Sort of. I'm working up to personal information with a girl named Jessica. She thinks I'm cute, knows I'm gay, and told me to stop flirting with the customers.
Flirting? That doesn't sound like you. Unless you've learned to loosen up since I last saw you.
Mother! How many times do I have to tell you I'm not uptight?
Oh, really?
I huffed. No one was in the break room to sympathize with me. Seconds ticked. Was I really uptight? I texted back: Fine. You win. I'm uptight and repressed.