She sits almost blindfolded in a chair in the kitchen ripping her hair out from trying to balance the checkbook. Her pencil looks like it’s about to consume the eraser and the numbers on the calculator buttons are barely visible.
      She asks me how my day was but I nod discordantly as to no real response slips out accordingly. She asks me if I’m all right and all these other small talk phrases I don’t bother to respond to at all. Then I force myself to urinate to escape from her trying to tell me about how much we spent on toothpaste or how much change she got back from buying the clothes that make her even more tiresome and flat than the day before. She says something really acrimonious like “break a leg” when she hears that I shut the door to the bathroom and I want to flush myself down the toilet instead of piss in it.
      When I exit she accompanies me to the couch where I begin channel surfing. She starts kissing my shirt so that it might evaporate so she can get to my bare chest. I only concentrate on the numbers of the stations and not the pictures that they provide. Somewhere someone on a different channel isn’t this displeased with every little thing that his girlfriend does. Somewhere someone is watching the same thing trying to simulate how well life is portrayed on television.
      She’s a triple x film you’ve seen too many times and I’m a documentary on the mating habits of the most apathetic specimen. She’s a hundred dollars in one bill. And I think I want someone that’s a fifty, a twenty, five fives, three ones, six quarters, four dimes, two nickels and five tarnished pennies with too many fingerprints on them to see Lincoln.

\\\\

      You silently wait in those lines created by those barrier ropes with the steel clip on their hooks. You silently get agitated because there are only two tellers and about a thousand angry customers with about a thousand angry arguments. Balance share stock errors and home equity loan disputes. Mixed account numbers and missing debit cards. The last check didn’t deposit and now you can’t pay your rent on time.
      The air conditioner is broken and you’re caught staring at the generic pictures of sailboats and sunsets in generic fake golden frames. They’re twice the size of normal paintings because they need to take up more space and are only there to comfort the irritated customers who need something to wonder off into when the line is stable without any activity. All you want to do is deposit your check. They should have one teller just for the basics. Deposits and withdrawals and transfers in case the A.T.M’s are out of order, which they currently are.
      You’re behind an old obese crinkled up widow with repugnant makeup and a wig that is only being held on her disproportionate head by those old metal headphones with the foam ear-muffs. The wire is gnarly and tangled and the walk-man or disc-man is no where in sight on the body of the woman who is holding a paper of some kind but you can’t make out exactly what. You wonder if today’s visit for this lady could make or break her entire life. It’s amazing what paper and ink can do to skin and bones.
      You keep saying in your head “hurry up. I still need to go grocery shopping.”
      You keep saying “why don’t they have more than two tellers? This is a bank, not a fucking roller coaster line.”
      You hear the shadows and whispers of the people scuffled off behind the line of people that are waiting for the teller to talk to them. They’re sitting behind desks with the highest upgraded computer systems and are talking to young mothers with one kid in a baby carriage and one on one knee bobbing up and down trying to persuade them not to cry and whine and cause a scene. They’re probably setting up new accounts while their stereotypical husbands have one job they hate and use the majority of their paychecks to pay bills and rent. In another couple months these wives will be in the same exact line as you and watch the newer mothers do the same thing over and over again. You watch a man in a business suit bite his nails and make conversation on his cell phone, probably with his wife who is at home with the kids wondering how they’re going to be able to afford a refrigerator or new car.
      You keep saying “why is this happening to me? Why not two minutes until after I’ve left the bank and don’t have to worry about dying?”
      Three men in masks are now robbing the bank. One in a ski mask, one in the old professional bandanna bandit theme, and one in a clown mask. Just your lucky day today.
      You keep asking yourself “who the fuck robs a bank in the center of a semi densely populated town in the middle of the day?”
      You’re face first on the ground still next to the obese lady who happens to be next in line and you’re being told not to panic. If you just give up your wallet, your checks and any jewelry or valuables you have in your possession, you will be all right. You’re sweating and are worried. One of them is literally right above you, not looking down at you, but scoping the area with a semi-automatic weapon held in both of his hands enclosed in gloves.
      Don’t move an inch. Give them all your money. Live. You still need to buy fruit. Wheat bread. And sugar.
      The obese woman starts crying and the little plump gentlemen with knee-high socks who is trying to steal all her income tells her to get up and stop whimpering or else she’ll be shot and will be an example to the rest of us who won’t cooperate. No phone calls. No police interruptions. The two tellers didn’t sound any alarms and the obese woman won’t quit pouring tears from her eyes.
      Instead of killing her he shoots her just below the knee cap so she’ll be paralyzed pretty much for the rest of her life because she’ll probably need to get it amputated. She’s wiggling on the ground like a fresh night crawler and all the children in the place have started copying her and are now crying wildly. Everyone is told not to panic but natural human reaction and responses tell you otherwise.
      You keep saying “holy shit. This isn’t really happening. This isn’t really happening.”
      And the definition of irony will soon come into clear focus because this three hundred plus pound lady is going to die from her casualty wound because the bank is so crowded and there are only two tellers to shovel and distribute out all the money to the robbers. It’s taking too long. The walk-man of the fat ladies dropped to the floor next to where you are laying down. Behind all the warnings to stay calm and the children’s thunderous cries you hear which song being played. It’s ‘everything’s gonna be all right’ by Bob Marley.

she)(have you ever seen a gun before
he)(are you talking like pointed to my face or have i ever held one in my hands
she)(either or
he)(ive been to a shooting range before if thats what you mean
she)(are you a good shot
he)(i dont know i don’t think im ever going to be in a situation where im really going to have to shoot someone to save my life
she)(stranger things have happened
he)(yeah like this
she)(like what
he)(dont worry about it its nothing

      I’m almost too anxious to do anything about it. I wonder if I really hate this woman and am just using her. Then I wonder if she’s just using me. Does she actually hate me? Does it really matter?
      I can’t believe I have reduced myself to putting myself in fake danger for my own personal amusement when I unload my sperm into her. And I just keep saying, “how did it fucking come down to this?" It’s an all time low. I start sweating but I’m not sure if it’s because I’m thinking about being robbed or because I just finished pretending to have extremely great sex with an extraordinary bland woman.
      I’m getting married to someone I think I hate in one week fourteen hours and roughly thirty minutes. Assuming everything goes according to schedule. But nothing goes according to schedule. If everything went according to schedule I wouldn’t have to be afraid in my fantasies and in real life. I’m afraid of letting go because she’s been there forever and I think I’m terrified of being alone. Scratch that. I know I’m terrified of being alone. We’re getting married in a week. It’s a toss up between what I want the most and what I’m afraid I’m never going to find again.
      And I keep saying “why does this shit always happen to me?”
      Then she turns the television off and falls asleep in a position I can’t squirm away from. I think I’m trapped.

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