The Teller Window

She saw him on a Wednesday. Late morning. Just before the lunch rush.

He was at her window—hers, specifically—and it knocked the air right out of her.

Chestnut-brown eyes. Warm. Patient. The kind of eyes that hold your gaze half a second too long and somehow make that feel like an invitation. He said thank you, and she said—well, she didn’t know what she said. Probably something like “You’re welcome,” but it came out soft and shaky, like her voice didn’t trust her not to say something dumb.

As soon as he turned away, she ducked her head and stared hard at the paperwork on her desk. Her hands were still tingling.

She didn’t see him again that day. Or the next.

But she thought about him. More than she should’ve. She imagined how his voice would sound when he wasn't at a bank counter. What he might order at a restaurant. Whether he was the type to open doors or just walk ahead and assume you'd follow.

It was nothing. A moment. But it had unsettled her in a way she didn’t realize she missed—like remembering a song from high school that made her want to roll the windows down and scream into the wind.

That weekend, while her husband mowed the lawn in his cargo shorts and their kids argued over the iPad, she caught herself wondering what it might be like to kiss someone new. Not someone better. Just… unfamiliar. Surprising.

It wasn’t like she wanted to blow up her life. She loved her family. She’d built something steady and good. But that steadiness had started to feel like sleepwalking.

They had sex that night. Or tried. He kissed her neck and ran a hand along her side, and she felt...nothing. Not cold. Not angry. Just blank. Like her body had left the room before he even touched her.

“You okay?” he whispered, breathing heavy.

She nodded.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m fine,” she said, and smiled, because that’s what you do when you’ve got two kids and a mortgage and no good reason to be sad.

Later, when he was snoring softly beside her, she went to the bathroom. Ran a bath. Something about the silence of the water filling up always made her feel human again.

She got in slowly, sinking to her shoulders. Her hair floated around her like seaweed. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back.

He came to her again—Not-Kent, as she'd started calling him. The man from the bank. Only this time he was closer. Leaning over the edge of the tub. His hands in her hair. That same warm gaze, but now it felt heavier somehow. Curious. Wanting.

She wasn’t the kind of woman who needed much to imagine things. Just a face and a feeling. And right now, her skin was buzzing.

She let one hand drift down her stomach under the water, moving slowly, deliberately. Her breath caught. She pictured him watching her like this—really seeing her, not just through the lens of motherhood or marriage or duty, but like she was still allowed to want things. Still allowed to be wanted.

Her lips parted as the pressure built. She tried not to make a sound.

It wasn’t fireworks. It wasn’t earth-shattering. But when it came, it was hers. Quiet and complete and just enough to remind her that she was still in there, somewhere.

She stayed in the tub until the water cooled. Then got out, wrapped herself in a towel, and stood in front of the mirror.

She didn’t look younger. Or sexier. Or particularly different. But something in her face had softened. Like she’d let herself breathe for the first time in weeks.

She padded back to bed and slid under the covers without waking him. Her skin smelled like lavender. She closed her eyes.

And for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel quite so invisible.