By Karen Crawford

It’s a short one, I promise. You see, yesterday I went to the bank because my account was running low. And this little girl standing in line behind me tugged on my coat sleeve and announced it was her birthday. “I’m ten,” she said and held up both hands. “Wow,” I said, “Ten? That’s a good age.” And, I don’t know why I said that, because it’s a shitty age, really. Do you remember being ten? It’s the loneliest number. And this little girl oozed lonely. Why else would she tug on my sleeve? Because her mother was distracted by her late-model phone, her long red nails, that tall swarthy bank teller? 

And you’re probably wondering why I’m telling you this story, and honestly, I don’t know – because it’s not true. It was the mother whose bank account was running low. It was a stranger who tugged on the little girl’s sleeve. It was the stranger who asked how old she was before she held up both hands. Did you know that sometimes loneliness can smell like peppermint candy? That it can look like the ocean in Grandpa’s eyes or a Preacher’s smooth hands? I can still feel that skip in the little girl’s step when she followed the stranger outside. The click, click, click of her Mary Jane shoes, the whoosh of the door closing behind her. And her mother–distracted by her compact, her lipstick, the tall swarthy bank teller. 

And I’m sure you’re thinking this isn’t true either. And maybe you’re right, I haven’t set foot in a bank in years! Even though I pitch my tent in front of one. But today is my birthday. And if you spare me some change, I’ll spare you my age and tell you something real. 

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Karen Crawford lives and writes in the City of Angels. Recent work has been included in Best Microfiction Anthology 2025, The Citron Review, Tiny Molecules, Flash Boulevard and elsewhere. Find her on Bluesky @karenc.bsky.social and X @KarenCrawford_