Her green eyes shone like the green fields of her mother country as I asked her, “Maybe we could get a drink sometime?” Her pupils were so large.

The ends of pencils cut off and pointed directly at you.

I was worried about my delivery (she was a bank teller after all…what a better way than to put my phone number in the “Account Number” line and ask her for a drink while shoving it underneath the partial window?).

“I’m Mormon. I don’t drink.”

My eyes remained on her like a rash until she scratched it away with, “I’m really Irish. I drink a lot.”

A smile fills my face and I breathe a silent breath. “When are you free?”

“I have family things.” I’m looking around the bank. A superior should be cutting me off any minute…”No personal issues at the teller window, please.” I’m drumming fingers. Making her nervous. Me nervous.

“Maybe?” comes out of my mouth.

I see her walking to and fro from the crazy machine that counts money and I wonder if she would live with me. With ME. I’m convinced. I’ve thought about it and her.

It takes a lot for me to ask somebody out.

“So what’s the answer?”

“Yeah. I think it would be nice.”

I knew it. The looks and the conversations weren’t thrown for gentle bunts in a childhood wiffle ball game. They MEANT SOMETHING. “Great.”

“Well, if you need change, you know where I am.”

What? Yes. I do.

A relief sweeps my body like a sandstorm. My dune buggy elevates…crashes to the ground in a triumphant checkered flag. Victory! Live in it. Smile at the foot of the ladder. The roof has a lovely display of the July Fouth fireworks coming up. Listen closely and you will hear your own heart beating and dying.

No, not dying.

Don’t be negative.

Not here.

Not now.

Next day.

Text message.

Number I don’t know.

“I walked out of my job.”

Hmmmm?

I call the number.

“Who is this?”

“Gorgeous Bank Teller.” (That’s not what she said…I just like to omit names people/places, or more simply PROPER NOUNS, from the reading public.)

“Oh. You walked out? Why?”

“Reason #1 and #2.”

“That’s understandable.”

“Yeah.”

“So that means you have more time on your hands.”

“Well, yeah.”

“So, when do you want to get that drink?”

“Oh, that’s another thing.”

“What.”

“I kinda have a boyfriend.”

My stomach did a turn that has grown comfortable at this point. “What do you mean ‘kinda’?”

“I have one.”

“So why did you say yes?” I enter into a stance, a defensive stance, like she’s standing in front of me. To show her that I’ve been through this before. That I’m expecting no surprises. And I’m not. And I have. Been through it, that is.

“It was just awkward. At the bank and all.”

“Why did you text me? And why are we talking now?”

“You seem nice…I don’t know…”

“Are you going to break up with him? Is he a jerk?”

“No.” pause. “I feel like the jerk.”

“Well, I guess…best wishes and good luck.”

“Good luck with your job.”

That’s all she could think of?

I throw my cigarette into the street and tell my friend the story. “Looks like you dodged a bullet. Sounds like drama.”

“I would like to dodge the bullet and drama after I came on her back.”

Unconditional love…like jesus.

I’m Doubting Thomas.