This forced him to remember — forget the eyes; the girl was a Blando. If his teammates were correct, she wouldn’t get excited and even if she did, it’d be fake-and-bake.
After he pushed over the Gladstone and the bag was opened to check, Jack watched the woman’s downturned face. Age, about nineteen or twenty. Skin? Perfection, nary a blemish. Small, pixieish nose supporting the brown, black and orange frame glasses, arched eyebrows above those, and one compact, extremely kissable mouth — the whole caboodle lightly skirted with makeup that accentuated every little thing in subtle style. Then there was blonde hair, parted on the left side, proceeding in neat waves to her shoulders. The ends defied gravity and curled back up an inch.
Her eyes were the killer; so magnetic Jack had to avoid looking at them. He tried to focus instead on the girl’s magnificent carnation-pink lips.
“Would you have your passbook?”
“Ahh — yep. Here you are.”
Jack swallowed hard as he slid the bankbook across.
Their fingers brushed, and he noted a slight colour appear across her cheeks. In return, Jack’s face burned. Briefly peering down to rediscover the girl’s hands — slender and superb — while she sorted through the bills, Jack winced. He didn’t know where to stare so he adjusted his gaze to the clothes.
The girl wore a fitted navy blue box-cut jacket, with a series of grape-rose coloured buttons, one inch in diameter, boasting rhinestone accents. The bottom hem of the jacket, visible just above the counter when she stepped back a moment, flared to produce a Peplum effect.
A mother-of-pearl badge affixed to the left lapel read ‘Miss Starkwell’. The badge swivelled away from Jack, along with the sublime face. Instead, he beheld a profile that once again knocked off his cotton socks.
“Oh, Mister Winkle,” she was saying to a cadaver at the next stall, a gaunt man pushing ninety. “I have a deposit here for $5,000. I hope you wouldn’t mind confirming the amount.”
“Certainly, Miss Starkwell.”
The Gladstone exchanged hands, pristine to ancient.
“We won’t be a moment, sir,” Miss Starkwell assured, all professional.
A middle-aged gentleman with a droopy brown moustache, bulbous nose and very little chin sauntered up to the woman’s side and placed his mitt on her shoulder. He poorly balanced a smirk that tottered toward patronizing, and those fingers on the navy blue held Jack’s attention.
Unsure why, he felt angry.
On the newcomer’s grey blazer sat a gold nametag with ‘Henry Holland’ inscribed. Apparently he was the manager — his badge looked like it’d cost a month’s salary.
“Everything fine here, Louise?”
“Yes, sir.”
Jack noticed the girl didn’t look up at her boss. In fact she hardly moved and was evidently uncomfortable.
Meanwhile, Henry’s contemplation sauntered over Jack and the other customers like they did not exist, since he was more intent on manhandling his employee. Those digits on the shoulder, nails cut far too short, had started to knead the material there.
Jack considered pulling away the metal grille and ripping the man’s arm out — what did it matter? He was only a Blando — but super strength was not his stuff.
All he could maybe do would be to blow a hole through the bars, in the process blinding or maiming everyone around — including Miss Starkwell. Jack didn’t know the extent of his power yet.
Thankfully, Mister Winkle had finished a plodding count of the cash.
“All done, Miss Starkwell,” the walking corpse croaked while he laboured under the Gladstone’s weight and placed it upon her desk.
“Thank you, Mister Winkle.”
They were so damned polite and formal to one another Jack considered he might fall asleep standing up, but there was no denying the mischief of that creeping hand on the girl’s shoulder.
Finally, she brushed off the thing.
“Thank you for your concerns, Mister Holland,” Miss Starkwell said in a frosty tone. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to finish up with this customer.”
“Yes, quite right, of course.” The man clicked his heels and went back into his gloomy office.
“My apologies, sir, for the delay.”
The girl’s expression was certainly warmer than the one she’d just tossed her boss — but that was precisely when the wall caved in, amidst much racket.
People ran about screaming and shouting as bricks, mortar, and a cloud of dust settled.
Standing by a yawning hole leading out to the main street was a huge character about three metres in height. He was made up of iron hexahedrons, each the size of a Rubik’s Cube, fixed together to create a man.