Noir detective, pop star, standing in line at the bank.

It was near closing time.  I'd been running late, literally, and felt more out of breath than I'd like to admit for a man just standing in line, but it'd be worth it.  Just a couple people ahead of me and then this job's pay would be ready to spend on booze and anachronistic brimmed hats.  Inoffensive music
I glanced around because that’s the kind of person I am - I like to notice things - and that’s when I noticed her, the one person in the world running more late than I was.  Her high heels clacked loudly on the floor, too loudly for her taste.  She made a face behind her Hollywood sunglasses as everyone turned to look.  The tellers glanced at eachother, clearly disappointed for one more person between them and the evening’s locked doors.
The old lady at the counter snapped her bag shut and left.  The line collectively stepped forward.  The girl stepped into place behind me.

I caught a whiff of her perfume as she fidgeted and recognized it immediately.  It was by Dame, that obnoxious pop star that felt the need to infiltrate every industry, even though she was vastly unqualified for.  My daughter had asked me for the scent last christmas when her mother refused to buy it.  Of course I got it for her.  I spoil that child.

I tried to eye the Dame-scented girl surreptitiously, which is a tricky thing to do when your target’s not a foot behind your back, but let’s pretend I pulled it off.  She hadn’t removed her sunglasses and was holding a tissue to her face like someone about to be suck, but I could tell from her poise that wasn’t the case.  This girl was hiding.
Maybe she had business at the bank that night and maybe she didn’t, but as the station switched songs I saw that girl flinch and I knew, in an instant, who was standing there.  She caught my recognition and the eyes behind those tinted lenses grew fierce.  Though she said nothing, the message was clear.

DON’T.