The first thing, the only thing, I could see, my pupils straining through irises made pinpoint by the August noon, was the splash of yellow lit by sunbeams, aimed from ninety-three million miles away with ferocious accuracy, through the skylight and to a direct hit on her and only her, standing at the teller who was swimming, with the rest of the us, in a sea of tube-light green.
Eyes adjusted, I slipped into line behind her — the lady in the yellow pullover. She wore warm-up pants — sea foam green — that gave her ensemble an Easter kind of appeal, but the pullover did most of the work. Yellow. Like a truckload of lemons. Fuzzy and soft and yellow. Like a bucket full of chicks. Soft yellow shoulders tickled by hair, dark as brunette can be, silky as a time exposure photograph of a waterfall. Rich with overtones and undertones of reds and browns that made me certain my hair could be so kissed by the sun. Certain that I could, we all could, look so good if only we could stand in that light.
She stood comfortably in the light, as if the light always shines on her, as if the light always seeks her out.
She stood purposefully in the light, as if she always stood in the light, as if she always sought out the light.
I waited my turn at putting money in or taking money out, I forget which, while she and the teller fast negotiated the opening of a checking account. Realization that I should change lines flashed too late. Other people filled the places I would have defected to, had I not had second thoughts, trying to imagine myself in another line, not being able to get past the idea that I preferred to be in this line, behind the yellow her, waiting my turn in the light.
The teller probed. How many checks do you want? Start with what number? What color? We have blue, green, and yellow. Time stopped. I glanced at the other customers who were either putting money in or taking money out — or maybe opening their own checking account where they would choose their own colors — and they were not standing with ears bent waiting for the answer, the inevitable response, the only color in the world she could possibly choose. The teller's heart had not ceased beating in anticipation. The clock with the big bank logo on the wall, next to the surveillance camera that was recording everything for posterity in a black and white that could never capture the impending irony of this moment, ticked off only one second or maybe two before we heard, the teller and I heard, "Yellow."
The teller had more questions, the other lines were spent, and another teller called, "Next." But I stayed behind the yellow pullover, which was no longer in reach of the sunrays that had shifted to her left and created a spotlight for me at the next window. If I chose to move. If I would try the light. I waited for her to notice her darkness and take back her light, but she was content to remain loyal to her teller.
Or maybe she knew she didn't need the light.
When I looked again there was another woman, dressed regular like me, in a faded blue jean jacket and brown cords so worn you could no longer hear her walk, who had stepped into the light. Only she didn't shine — she just looked exposed. And I knew then that I could never move to the light, even if it was the last teller on Earth.