At the bank today I kind of was relieved that the dumpy girl was going to be my teller rather than the trim, impossibly cute, suedeheaded, superbly attired young lad who got right out of the teller queue to greet people and escort them to his superspecial individual desk. I was kind of relieved for the simple reason that he was, after all, trim, impossibly cute, suedeheaded, and superbly attired at like age 21, with a well-tailored russet jacket, a dark-beige shirt, brown tie, brown slacks, and beige shoes. Imagine being able to pull all that off without being red-haired and/or black! Well, he did. He was adorable. He was a doll. Even his name was cute.
Picture my abashment when I actually did end up at his desk. He was all smiles, though I could barely look him in the eye. Where the hell had I seen him before? Out on Church St.? Not at the Local Bathing Establishment™ (LBE™) this weekend, by any chance? Actually, I thought so.
He served my needs cheerfully and it was a full half-hour later on the eetcarstray when I wondered why the hell I had not closed my transaction with a classically joeclarkesque line: “And on another topic, let me say that you are by far the best-dressed man in the branch today.”
Oh, fuck me.