Tyson Matthews

Prose, A Receipt

The bank teller today was cute.

Nice dark hair, and fine fair skin, with a tattoo on her inner forearm of a bird wearing a crown,
slightly blurred–likely blown out by the artist, as she was too young for it to have faded. She had
a tinge of that lib-millennial look to her, which I don't mind, as long as it comes with a liberal
amount of erudition. Weirdest of all, it kind of seemed like she was into me.

Me with my handlebaresque stache looking like a white Soseki, dressed in holey long sleeves,
with a dirt ugly cap, and some shit jeans from work. What gave me this impression? Simply her
tone, and intonation as she spoke. There was in her voice an excited affection toward me. Wisps
flowing from her mouth in little spurts, tweets of melody, that encircled, and excited my heart.
But really I'm quite sure there is a simple explanation: customer service.

Now of course, that is surely the case, but I had this thought: that perhaps before giving me my
receipt, she put her number on the back. Although, I'm quite sure I saw the back already, and it
was blank–99% certain. I still have this foolish wish, that maybe out in my car dash right now, is
an advance made toward me.

I don't want to look. I hope that tomorrow, when I get in my car it’ll be gone. I might try to lose
it.

Bio: Tyson Matthews is a 22-year-old writer from Prince Edward Island, Canada, who writes primarily short fiction, personal essays, and poetry. Instagram: www.instagram.com/tyson_matthews55/