Cynthia
Cynthia By: badmouth Ring ring. Another customer. The man tenses in the dark, waiting. In the back room, he can't hear the conversation. Minutes pass. The man relaxes in his rocking chair. Linda doesn't need him. At his breast, the baby stirs, then goes back to sleep. *** "That's me," the man insists, pointing at his driver's license. "I need a replacement bank card." The teller is in his early twenties - my age, the man realizes - and he's having a hard time keeping...