x365: 57 of 365: melba (ii)

Pink zip-up hoodie. Braces. Chemically burned strawberry blond hair pulled back in a hasty ponytail. A sprinkling of freckles and irritated pimples. And she's my bank teller. When did tellers get so young? Her nametag says Melba. I hand her a sheaf of cheques that I've been too lazy to deposit hoarding in order to keep myself solvent.

— You're a writer?
she asks, holding up one cheque from a magazine.

— Huh? What? A whatnow? Yes, I finish smoothly. I do a bit of writing, reviews and stuff. But it's not my day job.

Then I remember that my day job involves writing.

— I'm a speechwriter, so I guess that makes me a writer of some kind.

Melba stops inputting. She looks at me like I've told her I'm an archer at the parapets of Minas Tirith or something.

— A what?

— A speechwriter. I write speeches for politicians.

— You mean... they don't write their own?

Melba swings her head around and announces to the teller at the next wicket: &mdash Hey, did you know that politicians don't write their own speeches?

The other teller gets a look on her face like the escalator she's riding on has suddenly come to a halt. I wonder how often Melba sees that look.

— Yeaaah
, says the teller. She searches my face for a moment with an imploring save me please flash in her eyes.

— You two have a great New Year! I say.