First thing Monday morning, when Marion walks into the bank and sees the new teller, she knows the day will be different. Days and weeks. Who knows how long? And maybe troublesome. The new girl is blonde, thin, maybe just out of college, and Marion has never seen her before. No doubt the girl was interviewed last week while Marion was out, because if Marion had been in the bank when this one walked in, Marion would remember it. Oh yes. A tall skinny type. Marion is old enough to remember Twiggy. Marion leaves her desk, the executive desk parked in the corner since she's one of the officers and important enough, she leaves her desk and she finds some pretext to walk behind the row of teller bays to have a look at the blonde from the waist down. Only looking. Marion has a rule: no fraternizing with the employees, even the two or three she suspects are lesbians, and especially not with any of the straight young things who might be frightened out of their wits if they found themselves propositioned by a fifty-two year old dyke who also happened to be one of the bank officers.
No fraternizing period. But there was no harm in looking. Marion likes young Twiggy types, skinny girls with long legs and hardly any curves anywhere. This one has the longest legs, looking even longer in a ridiculously short skirt, and as she passes behind the girl, Marion takes in everything, the long legs, the firm little bottom emphasized by the tight skirt, the soft shoulder length blonde hair. She imagines the new girl's nipples: pink little points on breasts hardly large enough to fill an A cup. Pity, Marion thinks. Pity to have this one wasted on anyone but herself. Marion imagines herself filling her mouth with one of those little breasts. But Marion is too disciplined to dwell on the new girl, and by the time she returns to her desk she has her mind focused on the day's business again.
An hour later, Anita Morrow, the personnel manager, stops by Marion's desk and mentions the new teller.
"Her name's Sandra," Anita says. "Would you like me to bring her over to meet you?"
Marion declines. Too busy. Later, maybe. Anita shrugs and wanders off to waste time somewhere else. Marion passes the rest of the morning on the telephone with several important accounts, her eyes occasionally travelling to the bay where the new girl seems to be working quite efficiently. Experienced. Marion wonders where the girl is from, what bank?
In the afternoon their eyes meet for the first time, Sandra giving Marion a long open look, a faint smile as she passes by on some errand or other. Marion suddenly wonders if the girl
knows
. Oh, hell, am I that obvious? Despite her short haircut, Marion never thinks she looks gay. Not at this age. The short hairdo is quite appropriate for fifty-two. She presents a carefully groomed appearance, makeup patiently applied, chic but conservative clothes suitable for the job she has. Their eyes meet again, and Marion suddenly realizes the girl must be gay. She must be. Complete revelation in the eyes when she gazes at Marion. That look. Of course now everything is considerably more difficult, the danger even greater. The girl has been in the bank less than one full day and already Marion's work is affected. Stupid, Marion thinks. You're a stupid old dyke. Certainly, there are two or three other gay women at the bank. Oh, but none like this one. None like Sandra. None like Twiggy.
Nothing else happens that day, and when Marion finally leaves the bank, she goes home to a light dinner alone, some phone calls to answer as she sits near the living room gazing at the lights of the city. The apartment is twenty stories up, modern, carefully furnished, and she never pulls the blinds. She adores having the day and night sky and the city part of the interior of the apartment. But she feels more alone than usual this evening. She's been a long time between women, too long. She thinks of the girl in the bank again. Sandra. That tall slender body. Holding a glass of cool white wine in her left hand as she stands in the living room, Marion unbelts her robe and allows it slide off her body. She's naked now, her body part of the night sky and the lights of the city. She thinks of Sandra as she slides her right hand below her belly to cup her shaved mound, the hairless smooth lips, her middle finger pressing against her clitoris as her fingertip dips into the well to test the wetness.
A sip of wine. Her fingers moving. Marion slowly rubs the shaft of her clitoris as she thinks of Sandra. Oh, what I could do with that one, Marion thinks. She masturbates as she gazes at the night sky.
* * *
The next morning, at the bank, Marion is surprised to learn the new girl is already gone.
"Called in to quit," Anita Morrow says, her lips pursed in a pout of annoyance. "She says she's decided not to work in a bank for a while. The gall."
By noon, Marion has already shrugged it off, the girl only a fading memory, the provocation for last evening's brief fantasy, but it could never have been more than that anyway.
Lunch with an old friend at Antonio's Ristorante. They chat aimlessly, gossip, bored with each other before the espresso is served. "Don't take any bad checks," Sylvia says with a smirk as she prances off to the dress shop she owns. Marion watches her, wondering how successful Sylvia is with the women in her shop. The salesgirls. The clientele. A bank can be such a dreary place for a horny old dyke.
While inside a gift shop to buy a card for a young niece, Marion sees the back of a tall girl at the far end of the aisle. Twiggy? The girl turns, reveals her profile. Yes, it's Sandra, the blonde at the bank who's no longer at the bank. Unseen, slightly stunned, Marion watches her, then finally pulls her chips together and strides down the aisle.
"You only had one day with us at the bank. That was quick, wasn't it?"
The girl turns, stares at Marion, at Marion's amused smile.
Sandra smiles in turn. "I suppose they think I'm an idiot."
"Not really."
"I've worked in three banks and I've decided I hate it."
