I’m standing in a long queue at the bank as the branch manager comes out of his office, talking on the phone. When he sees me, he stops in front of me for a moment, looks into my eyes as he keeps talking and then pauses to say hello. I answer him. He goes into another office and then comes out again after a short while, walks past the queue and into his office again, leaving the door open. A few seconds later, he comes out again.
“Is everyone here for cash operations?” he inquires.
The people standing in line say yes and he’s looking at me as I nod.
“Can I help you with anything?” he insists addressing the queue and then approaches the man standing in front of me, who looks rather sick and has difficulty standing, and asks him what he is there for. The man wants to make a payment, so the guy shows him how to do it himself, using the self-banking robo (whatever its name is).
“If you are here for anything other than cash operations, please come into my office or go to my colleagues’ offices over there, who are counselors and can help you. So that you don’t spend too much time in our bank.”
He keeps looking at me and smiling while addressing the queue, so I smile back. Only for a few seconds do his blue eyes slide like melting ice from my eyes down to my neck, collar bones and cleavage.