Two Years at a Bank

By: Gabriela Yareliz

I was chewing on a pretzel and catching glimpses of my acne-stained cheeks in the reflection of the changing screen on my computer when his LinkedIn update appeared where the reflection of my face had been a split second ago.

Two years working at a bank, it said. I looked at his face and smiled. It was a much grown up version of the face I had met years ago on a flight to Paris. He told me about his life in Hawaii and all of his dreams. I had a head full of ambition, and in my hand had been a little notebook filled with itineraries, addresses and phone numbers. Plans. Dreams. Youth.

I stared at his photo on my computer screen and smiled. “Two years working at a bank,” I said out loud, not caring what neighbors heard me in the hallway. “What happened to our free spirits, remember?” I thought of our 18-year-old sparkly eyes. I paused and remembered my own very non-free spirit profession of “attorney” and smiled. I let out an exhale. “I get it man, I get it.”

I hope you are still dreaming, man. I certainly know I am. I am still a free spirit— don’t let my LinkedIn fool you.