JITTERS • by Kimberly C. Lundstrom

09:55:00: Carrie reaches across the café table to take Alex’s shaking hand. Her eyes are the exact color of his double tall mocha.

09:25:38: Clutching the twisted remains of his glasses, Alex asks Carrie if she wants a coffee, or something.

09:25:33: Alex helps the pretty girl up off the floor. She thanks him and says her name is Carrie. He tells her his name.

09:18:21: The cop asks Alex if he saw their faces at all.

09:16:15: Sirens, shouting and running footsteps from outside tear the tense silence in the bank.

09:11:54: He hears a crunch within inches of his face as a hiking boot finds his glasses.

09:06:38: Alex smells carpet glue and dust. The geometric pattern swims in front of his eyes as the voice shouts, “Stay down!”

09:06:29: Alex turns to go. A man wearing a ski mask holds a gun on the teller at window five. Pop. Pop. “Down!” a voice at his ear thunders, “Giddown, Poindexter!” Alex pitches forward with the blow. His glasses tumble to the floor.

09:06:27: “Can I help you with anything else, sir?” She looks right at him. “No… no, thank you.” Dammit.

09:05:04: Alex approaches the pretty girl at teller window four. He’ll talk to her today, say something about those eyes of hers, eyes the color of… oh, he’ll think of something.

Kimberly C. Lundstrom lives in the Seattle, Washington area, where she enjoys reading, writing and disappearing into the mist. Her fiction has appeared online in Residential Aliens and in print in the anthology Becoming Fire: Spiritual Writing from Rising Generations. She is currently pursuing a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing at the Northwest Institute of Literary Arts: Whidbey Writers Workshop.

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