Bank

by Walter Conley

I took California Dee to get her first real bank account. She even picked the bank. We sat in a glass cubicle under the kind of lighting that turns my eyes into homemade gravy. I was coming off three-and-a-half hours' sleep. I'd run out of deodorant and had to use a stick someone gave me for Christmas twelve years ago. I was uncomfortable and socially inept and when my daughter laughed, the nice woman laughed with her.

6S

Walter Conley is a freelance writer whose work has appeared in such online venues as A Twist of Noir, The Flash Fiction Offensive, Powder Burn Flash, and Opi8: New Dark Culture. He sometimes has nightmares about his own daydreams. His website is here.