Write about: the deposit.
Took some time this morning to get a few blossom pictures around the orchard. These, I believe, are peach blossoms (with an outside chance of them being nectarine blossoms):
And this is one of my plum blossom shots:
I'm basically sold on the new camera, I'm just delaying for no good reason at this point. I expect I'll have purchased it within the next couple of days now.
Most of the afternoon was spent with Max at his favorite park. Other than his complete lack of enjoyment of transitioning from one activity to the next, it was generally a good day for him.
Tomorrow is Kat's birthday, so I'm planning on cooking her dinner and spoiling her as much as possible.
Mine:
The weight of the briefcase in my right hand feels like a lead ball. It slows me down, and hauling it around is exhausting. I know I can't keep it much longer. Dropping it and making a run for it is desperately tempting, but that would be tantamount to suicide.
So that's why I'm here. I guess. I wish it was somebody else, but they picked me. And there's no saying no to these people.
Still, I wish they'd gone with someone a little more experienced with this sort of thing.
This suit doesn't feel like mine. Like it was made for someone just a little bigger than me. Which makes sense, seeing as it's a rental. It's just that it's making me feel even more like a fraud, and that's not helping me. At all.
The last person in line in front of me disappears and suddenly I'm next. I concentrate on remembering to breath. And not dropping the briefcase. Act casual. Like I do this sort of thing every day. Like the money I'm carrying is mine. Like... okay, I'm focusing on too many things now.
Okay, I'm up. I can do this.
"Hello," the teller says with a generic smile. "How can I help you today?"
"I need to make a deposit." Good. Steady voice. Solid eye contact. Doing well. "There's, uh... not like, a maximum amount of... uh, cash... that I can do... that... with, right?"
Bloody hell.
