My life overflows with enough Type B collusions to send me to an intensive-care unit. They can't find their wallets, the right bill, their last nickel, as I clutch the exact ticket price in my sweaty palm.
Time ticking away, they chat with the cashier about escalating popcorn prices.
As I frantically count my heart palpitations, they leisurely count their change in front of the window. My upturned, outstretched hand is yearning to cross the teller's window while the only person before me is strolling up to it, flicking lint off her peacoat. Finally, cash in hand, I make for the door. She is still flicking and wishes me a nice day. I silently wish her any kind of slow death.