I used to think I was in love with my bank teller. Her name was Jules. She never actually gave me her name herself, but that’s what her name tag said. Jules… Jules. Such a beautiful name. Jules. Like units for electricity, “joules”. Oh I thought there was some serious electricity between us. It just rolls off the tongue that name, Jules. Jules, with jewels for eyes.
I don’t think our interactions ever went much further than me sliding checks and cash across the counter to her. Regardless, I used to be in love with my bank teller. I never actually got around to asking her out. I can’t imagine her saying yes anyhow, seeing how she knew how dismal my paychecks were. In truth, I didn’t know much about her apart from that her name was Jules, but I was in love with the idea of being in love with the person I liked to imagine she was. And she was, “Jules”
My imagination was vivid. Usually it focused around how adorable our first meeting was going to be. It would be a crisp autumn day. We’d both be walking down some generic beautiful tree lined street towards each other, us both dodging left simultaneously to avoid the other, then dodging right, then left again, only to awkwardly collide through our mutual mistake. Her armful of books would go flying into the air and scatter on the leaf littered ground. I’d bend down to help her pick them up while shyly mumbling apologies. We’d both try to pick up the same book, which sometimes was a famous book that I liked to imagine I’d had written, and we’d begin an accidental adorably awkward game of tug-of-war. And then we’d both look up and gaze into each other’s eyes- Jules’ jewel eyes- for the first time, we’d let the book fall, and we’d both smile and she’d chuckle, and the rest was history. Love at first sight. Soulmates forever.
This is just one of a million fantasies I used to dream up daily.
While standing in line at the bank, montages used to play in my head. Usually to some ridiculously soulful soundtrack, something sexy, and transcendental, and written by Peter Gabriel. Literal lifetimes would flash before my eyes. Us going on our first date, Meeting each other’s parents, our first christmas, moving in together, getting married, having kids, retiring, celebrating our fiftieth anniversary, and dying side by side mere minutes apart in our hospital beds. I’d picture us burning our thanksgiving turkey. Or her dressed as a casually sexualized witch handing candy out on halloween. Or us arguing over the colour of the birdhouse we’d one day paint together- me wanting brown, her wanting blue.
Then one day while I was waiting at the stop for the Number 26 bus, I happened to see her driving by in a tiny sedan. I lifted my hand to wave to her as she went by, and I got soaked by the water and mud splashed up from the puddle by the road as she passed. I watched the sedan drive away, with my hand still suspended in the air.
That’s when I recognized how unrecognizable I was. It’s was also about the time I realized I didn’t know anything about Jules. Except that her name was Jules, and that she worked as a bank teller.