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.