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She Wears a Flower in her Hair

Rosie Cahill is a crazy old bat, with swollen man hands and a flower in her hair.
She says that she's an artist, a dressmaker, and she used to be quite pretty.
She sometimes wears a lot of make up and says she thinks of me when she puts the blue on her lids.
But hers isn't neat like mine, and she sweats a lot.
One time I had to give her my mirror and a tissue, because it was streaking down her face and I knew she'd cry if she got home and realised.
She cries enough as it is.

She recently started showing up in my office two minutes before close. Which is thirteen minutes after I shut my till and say "No more loans today".
Each time I look at her sternly and say it's too late.
She begs, she says she just has to call the bank and get her statement.
The first time, I let her do it.
I know she has a disability, I know she forgets. She forgets that I know these things and tells me all the time.

The second time, she came in through a closing door and I had neither the time nor the patience to wait, so I told her no.
She'd have to come back tomorrow.
I pondered for a moment, maybe this was a death sentence. But I decided, it probably wasn't.
She'd have to learn.

The last two times she came in with a bank statement. And well before close.
There were no tears.

On a Sunday she called me at 5:05pm and said "Please say you're open until 5:30."
We're not.
I hung up when I could no longer understand the words through the tears.

Today she came at eight minutes to close.
She forgot her bank numbers.
She cried again.

I fold.



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Like a Fox
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