A Date at Eight

“No can.” The security guard tapped the closing times imprinted on the glass door with a manicured fingernail.

Philip glanced around. Raising his arm in goodbye, he sped off on his borrowed 10-speed. He rounded one corner, then another, and then another; he coasted to a stop, smiling at the teller seated at the drive-thru window.

She was not amused. “Sir, you need a car.”

“If I can cash dis, den I can get my cah outta da shop.” He brought his hands together in prayer, crumpling the check. “Please?”

She rolled her eyes, shook her head, and then smiled.

Talk story

Leave one comment for A Date at Eight

This website uses cookies to offer you a better browsing experience. By browsing this website, you agree to its use of cookies.