He took it. He held it up to the light. He turned it over. He looked at the picture. He looked at me. He looked at the picture again.
The picture was from three years ago. I’d had my hair done for it. I was wearing my blue church dress and my pearls. I looked like a nice old lady.
Now I looked like a nice old lady who’d been rolling around in a garden. Which I was.
“I’ll need two more forms,” he said.
“Two more? For forty dollars?”
“A utility bill. A passport. Something with your address.”
“Young man, I live four blocks from here. On Elm Street. The yellow house with the roses.”
He set my license down on his side of the glass.
He didn’t slide it back.
“Ma’am,” he said. “We have to be careful with people like you.”
The bank got quiet.
