Westley Thompson

A Couple of Outlaws

The bank teller lifts her head as I step up to the counter. There is plexiglass separating the two of us, and it looks like it hasn’t been cleaned in a while. Specks of grime and dust coat the clear material like paint splattered across a painter’s canvas. She flashes me a tight smile, showing off her yellowed, lipstick-stained teeth. Her eyes, coated in an awful blue eyeshadow, are bored and irritated.