In Which I Witness the Soft Launch of a Situationship at My Local Bank Branch

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Let me begin with a disclaimer I am morally obligated to repeat:
If you don’t want to be the subject of my blog, don’t try to pick up someone while opening a savings account with less than lunch money.

I came to the bank to handle a transaction. Nothing complicated. I was prepared to be in and out. Quick deposit, maybe a transfer, definitely no spiritual revelations or low-budget rom-com plotlines. Unfortunately, I had to wait for one of those transactions that involved someone sitting in the oversized cubicle—you know, the ones that look like an HR office but feel like confession booths for questionable financial decisions.

With the brain-mushing heat outside clocking a cool 100 degrees—heat so heavy it made me nostalgic for November—the semi-cooled bank lobby felt like Christmas morning with central air. I pulled out my famed noise-canceling headphones, which, as we all now know, cancel absolutely nothing and amplify chaos with Dolby surround precision.

That’s when I saw him.

Enter: The Main Character Energy Guy.

Smooth. Confident. Dressed in a short-sleeve linen button-down that said, “Yes, I know it’s hot, but I’m hotter.” He had one AirPod in (left ear—why is it always the left?), his phone in hand like a prop, and a little silver ring on his pinky. Not for fashion. For vibes.

He was at the counter with a teller so pretty she could’ve been cast as “Bank Employee #2” in a Hallmark film, the kind that airs on Thanksgiving afternoon and involves a misunderstanding about pie.

She was professional, yes, but also laughing and giggling like someone had just slipped a rom-com soundtrack under the fluorescent lights. I’m not exaggerating when I say she occasionally forgot she was at work. She leaned in slightly when she laughed. He leaned back, like someone in control of a very delicate social experiment.

To his defense, she was giving him feedback. I caught a few of her responses as they floated through the icy air: she lived in Alexandria, she never came to D.C. unless it was “worth it.” Boom. That was the cue he had been waiting for. He pounced like a budget Gatsby.

“Oh yeah? I’m actually an entertainment producer. I’ve got a gig this weekend. It’s gonna be big.”

Sir.

Now, I admit—I joined this conversation mid-flight. I don’t know what runway he used to take off or how much turbulence he hit on approach. But based on her twirling her pen like it was her fifth-grade crush all over again, the plane was still in the air.

Also, can we talk about who else was in the bank?
– An older woman in a church hat who side-eyed the man like she was about to call his mother.
– A man in cargo shorts tapping his foot at a speed that could power a small grid.
– And me. Silent. Observant. Trying to figure out if this was a cold open to Love & Direct Deposits.

And yes, as my wife keeps reminding me, I’m terrible at staring. It’s not subtle. The teller probably noticed me watching, because they started whispering like two middle schoolers planning a hallway rendezvous. I wasn’t going to be deterred. This was better than Netflix, and I had no Wi-Fi anyway.

Now, here’s the thing—I assume as a teller, you’re a kind of financial salesperson, right? So, she did her due diligence and gently nudged him back to the topic at hand: opening an account.

This was the moment, friends.
The moment when a lesser man might’ve said,
“I’ll start with a $2,000 balance,” or
“I’d like to explore your money market products,” or even
“I need a checking account for my production company’s revenue stream.”

Instead, he says:
“Do y’all offer savings accounts? What’s the minimum balance?”

Oof.

Her spine straightened, her pen stopped twirling, and you could feel the mood shift from flirtation to orientation. The professionalism came back fast, like muscle memory. She smiled—still—but the giggles had a different tone now. They were lighter, like helium. Detached. Detached in the way a woman laughs when she’s already made up her mind about you and that decision is: “not today, sir.”

Still, she stayed polite.

She explained the savings options and asked how much he planned to deposit.

His answer?

“Five dollars.”

Bruh.

FIVE. AMERICAN. DOLLARS.

You could’ve heard a single coin roll under the counter. Somewhere, the older woman in the church hat dropped her lip. Even the cargo shorts guy stopped tapping for a second.

But our man wasn’t done. He leaned forward, as if to seal the deal—not the financial one, the emotional one. With what I assume was either reckless optimism or catastrophic confidence, he asked for her number.

Her response?

“None.”

Delivered like a well-rehearsed line in a workplace safety training video. She’d clearly said it before. Possibly earlier that morning. Possibly ten minutes ago.

She then handed him a folder and told him to review all the products they offered. With that same laugh. But now it had the edge of “I’m laughing because if I don’t, I might start billing this time as hazard pay.”

At this point, I almost forgot why I was even there. My own transaction felt deeply unimportant in the face of this spectacle. But eventually, the banker in the oversized cubicle summoned me over.

As I was leaving, I glanced back.

He was still sitting there.

Still trying to figure out if $5 and a producer gig that may or may not involve a rented speaker from Best Buy could win a woman with perfect edges, a symmetrical smile, and no time for nonsense.

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Final Scene (Because Life Needs One):

As I walked out, the older woman in the church hat turned to the security guard and said, loud enough for the entire lobby to hear:

“He better be producing something stronger than a savings account.”

And that was it. Curtain call.

Was it eavesdropping? Was it not minding my business? Maybe. Maybe not.

But this is public space, people. If you’re going to shoot your shot during a financial transaction, just know there might be a blogger behind you, sipping mental tea and watching your budget romance unfold like a coupon with too many conditions.

Moral of the story?
Don’t lead with “producer” and follow with five bucks.
Don’t try to pick up your bank teller unless you’ve got the funds, the vibe, and at least one functional direct deposit.
And please—if you’re going to make a move, make sure she’s laughing with you.

Not at you.

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#SavingsFlirtFail
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#HeatstrokeRomance
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#SituationshipsAndSavings
#BankBranchBlunders
#DirectDepositYourDignity