Sweet, but unrealistic. Angie hadn’t been the best high school student, hadn’t played sports or had a good hobby, either, mostly because she’d always worked to help her parents make ends meet. She hadn’t minded, though some times she wished they’d really see her, her, Angie Rivers, and not just what they dreamed Angie Rivers to be.

Disturbingly enough, her parents’ expectations only seemed to get more unrealistic the older they became. Why hadn’t she become successful? Rich? Well connected?

Married with brilliant children?

She didn’t like to admit that she’d dug in her heels and purposely become the antithesis of their out-of-reach expectations. But that’s what she’d done.

She had goals for herself-they just didn’t match anyone else’s. She wanted to paint. There wasn’t a whole heck of a lot of money in that, unless she found some superb talent from deep within. Oh, and she’d also have to die, as most artists made all their money posthumously.

The bank line she’d chosen still hadn’t budged, and there she stood, with only seven minutes left on her break. Craning her neck, she saw an older woman at the counter, doling out change to the teller. One coin at a time.

Behind her was every mother’s night mare. A young punk, wiry and dressed for a ghetto fashion show, paced edgily, muttering to himself. He looked like a simmering pot ready to explode.

The man in front of her had a swagger. A sort of I’m-God’s-gift-to-women swagger. Angie could easily overlook his cheap, light blue suit and tacky tie as she appreciated-and remembered with vivid clarity-the pain of never having the in clothes.

She was still feeling that pain.

What she couldn’t ignore was the way he invaded her space and kept winking at her.

“Come here often?” he actually asked her, brushing his shoulder against hers.

She didn’t answer, hoping he’d give up if she didn’t encourage him. His hair had been slicked back with enough gel to grease a pig. His breath was hot and smelled like tuna.