She told me over lunch one afternoon how I ought to not trust banks. I ought to keep my money in cash, hidden, tucked away underneath my mattress or in my coffee tin or even in the ceiling tiles or baseboards. She told me that I ought to do this right away when I get home. I nodded occasionally, at the moments where I felt like it would make the most amount of sense, even though I felt like not much was making sense as we sat underneath a Spring sun with an umbrella propped next to our table, its folds of sunbleached fabric fluttering occasionally with the breeze. Just because she’s an aunt, she told me, perhaps for the hundredth time, doesn’t mean I get to ignore her advice. She then told me that she wasn’t my mother, but that my mother ought to know better than to let me go off for an entire afternoon in the city with an aunt that barely speaks to the family. I thought this was a strange thing to say, but I ordered another iced tea and settled into my chair for more hiding place ideas for my loads and loads of cash I would soon withdraw.


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