At the bank.

At the bank. In the morning. I enter the warm and comfortable surroundings of the bank office after having walked all the way there in the freezing cold. I get a ticket from a que-machine that reads “227”. There are nine people before me in line. I come to the conclusion that it’ll take thirty to fifty minutes, approximately, before my turn is here. I try heading for the seats where I can sit and relax until it is my turn. To get there I have to pass a line of people. I register in my field of vision a beautiful woman standing in line, most likely in her early to mid-twenties. I instantly re-direct my route so that I have to pass her to get to the seats. I know I somehow have to catch her attention and alarm her that I have to go through, so that she’ll move aside for a second. I am looking forward to it, because I love her hair. It is long and blond, slight curls at the end and I can see from here that it smells like the ocean, the heaven or something in that general direction. It’s hair that is so smooth that you can never quite get it. Take a grip on it and it’ll just slide from your hand, free as it ever was, leaving you dumbfounded where you stand.

She doesn’t show much skin, it being winter and all, but her skin is still present. I close in on her and I look forward to gently placing my hand on her shoulder, a message that “Hey, I have to go through”, but also an alibi for a sensual touch. I am very close to her now. And then it happens. She notices me and the direction my feet are heading. She smiles at me a smile that gives me a sense of inner peace, before she takes a step to the side allowing me to pass by. It is so incredibly tragic, as I had really looked forward to that touch. I walk past her without the chance of touching her even in the slightest and find my way to a seat that looks comfortable enough.

There is something very disgusting about this that I can’t put my finger on.