The Bank Tellers

Cathy hovered practicedly over her seat in the bank lobby ladies room,
pale pantyhose and trim knee length skirt
clutched carefully away from sensible navy air cushion pumps.

She heard a musical waterfall of bracelets, a gauzy rustle,
a muttered but definitely “bad” curse word,
and the unmistakable sound of a small flatulence.

Cautiously Cathy maneuvered a peek next stall,
to be met by a puddle of multihued broomstick  skirt
and teal toenails ensconced in laced leather sandals,

Shockingly, she also met Janice peeking right back.
Flame colored curls dragged the floor as Janice leaned over.
“Got a safety pin, my damn bra’s busted.”

They met at the sink where Cathy noted as she scrubbed
neat hands adorned with tasteful color, cut, clarity, and carrot  
that Janice merely rinsed her multi-ringed fingertips.

Janice, it seemed was there for the new teller interview.
Hand to her gold cross in an accustomed grip
Cathy prayed her way back to her cubby, “please, please, please hire her.”

Janice, whose cash drawer always came out even at the end of the day,
turned other teller’s unbalanced closings from times of frustration and sniping
to camraderies of raucous laughter, bawdy talks, and true confessions.

In the pristine gray Volvo Cathy took Janice home for lunch.  
She served crust-less sandwiches, gazpacho soup, and an elegant merlot.  
There was unobtrusive classical and a pampered Siamese,

Janice wore chartreuse paisley printed palazzo pants with fuchsia chenille
and sat on the oyster couch among tasseled pillows in ecru, taupe, and bone.
Cathy thought in wonder, “There is magic in my house.”

They rattled along to Janice’s for lunch in the ancient station wagon,
ice cream smears on the windows and chip crumbs on the seat.
A two hundred pound Newfoundland drooled his greeting.

A loaf of peanut butter and jelly, half gallon of milk, and bag of apples
were explained when Janice opened the back screen door to bellow, “Lunch.”
Of the assorted dirty faces who came running only five belonged to Janice.

Janice watched as, uncaring of grape jelly stains on cream silk,
Cathy held the littlest and listened to a toddler’s prattle.
Janice thought in wonder, “There’s an angel in my house.”

And then, one fine autumn day, Janice tendered two-week notice.
Cathy’s tightly penned letters went out once a week on Thursday.
Hastily scrawled scraps came back sporadically from exotic states.

Cathy, sitting at her teller window with ankles primly crossed,
dreamed of Janice off with unicorns and fairytale princes,
leaving Cathy far behind.  

Janice, caretaker of a ranch in Idaho, bookkeeper for a lobster firm in Maine,
renting jet skis to rich boys in Florida,
felt her soul safely anchored in her friend’s loving heart.