tomato bed.
Ezoic
I watched him look at all of it.
Then he leaned toward the glass and talked very loud and very slow.
“MA’AM. DO YOU HAVE AN ACCOUNT WITH US?”
He said it like I was a foreigner. Or a child. Or someone who’d wandered in off the highway by mistake.
“I do,” I said.
“I’LL NEED TO SEE SOME IDENTIFICATION.”
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I’m seventy-nine.
My hearing is better than his manners.
I didn’t say that. I just reached into the front pocket of my work shirt, where I keep my license in a






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