Fine was easier than saying: I am tired of feeling nervous in my own kitchen. Fine was easier than explaining the low, persistent unease that had been following me from room to room for the past several months, sitting across from me at mealtimes, waiting beside my bed when I turned out the light at night.
I slid my identification across the counter.
“I’d like to open a new account,” I said.
Carla glanced at her screen, then back at me. There was no alarm in her face, but there was attention.
“Is there a problem with the current one?”
“No,” I said. Then, because something in me had finally grown tired of softening truths to make them easier for other people to receive, I added, “I just need this one to be separate.”
She lowered her voice with the automatic discretion of someone who understands certain conversations. “Checking or savings?”
“Both,” I said. “In my name only.”
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. “Any authorized users?”
“No.”
