An old man approaches the counter, and Lodi uses the volume wheel of the phone in her hand to turn her music down.
     "Hi, sir. My name's Laura. How can I help you," Lodi says. Lodi hears herself say Laura, because in fact she is Laura, but as the name spins in her mind, she changes it back to Lodi. She knows what the old man wants. He has a jar of change in his hands.
     "Hello, dear," says the old man, who has a fringe of white hair over his ears, and patches of dry skin under his eyes. "Can you change this into folding money for me?"
     "Of course," she says, reaching over the counter for the jar. She walks the jar in back to the coin counter, uncorks it, and turns the contents into the metal funnel. When a manager approaches her, she yanks hard on the phone in her hand, and pulls the earphones from her ears and in through the collar of her shirt. Her ear is sore from repeated yanks at her earphones. She crinkles her nose a little. She wonders how long it will take to get used to this—to maybe grow some sort of callus.
     "Almost time to go home, eh Laura?" he says.
     "Sure is," says Lodi.
     "Sure is," he says. And he stands in front of her for a moment, his mouth slightly open, his eyes unfocused, his fingers scratching a manila folder.
     "Only Tuesday, though," Lodi says.
     "Yes. Tuesday. That's right!" says the manager. He laughs.
     "That can only mean one thing," says Lodi. The manager’s eyebrows go up a little, and he leans in to Lodi. "Tomorrow is Wednesday," she says.
     "Well, I guess I can't argue with that," he says.
     Lodi's coins have been counted, and she checks the total, and writes it on a slip of white paper with a short pencil. There is a box of short pencils on the machine. There are boxes of short pencils everywhere in the bank.
     It's eleven dollars and thirty-eight cents. Lodi walks back to the counter and counts out the money for the old man.
     "Thanks, dear," he says.
     "You're very welcome," she says.
     "Are you new here?" says the old man. "I come here every other week or so, and I don't think I've ever seen you before."
     "No, I've been here," she says. "I've waited on you, I think."
     "Oh," says the old man. "I'm sorry. Well, I'll remember you next time."
     "Thanks," she says. "I'm sure you will. And I'll remember you, too."
     "I will, though," says the old man. "I noticed as you walked away that you have a really nice butt. A little thicker. That's how I like them."