The little bald spot in front of me, casting a glare even in the muted bank lobby lights, steps aside. The teller is a young, right-out-of-high-school girl. She’s pretty in a way that won’t last beyond her first child. She looks at her watch.

“Good afternoon, sir.” She’d rather be somewhere else. She should be half way done counting down, and much closer to going home than she is. She has plans tonight, drinks, dancing, whatever pretty young girls do before they grow up.

“Welcome to -” She looks up. Her words catch in her throat. That base fear born of stereotype and things we aren’t supposed to acknowledge. For a moment, a fraction of a second really, she‘s scared. Then, she wants to ask, but like everyone else, she doesn’t.

I smile.

No one ever really wants to know.