“Well, well, well,” Charlie announces, looking up from a stack of papers with his forever-boyish grin. Lowering his chin, he peers over his vintage horn-rimmed glasses. He’s been wearing the glasses for years – way before they were fashionable. The same holds true for his white shirt and rumpled slacks. Both are hand-me-downs from my closet, but somehow, the way they hang on his lean frame, they look perfect. Downtown stylish; never preppy. “Look who’s slumming!” he cheers. “Hey, where’s your ‘I’m no longer a member of the proletariat’ button?”

I ignore the jab. It’s something I’ve had to get used to over the past few months. Six months, to be exact – which is how long it’s been since I got him the job at the bank. He needed the money, and mom and I needed help with the bills. If it were just gas, electric, and rent, we’d be fine. But our tab at the hospital – for Charlie, that’s always been personal. It’s the only reason he took the job in the first place. And while I know he just sees it as a way to pitch in while he writes his music, it can’t be easy for him to see me up in a private office with a walnut desk and a leather chair, while he’s down here with the cubicles and beige Formica.

“Whatsa matter?” he asks as I rub my eyes. “The fluorescent light making you sick? If you want, I’ll go upstairs and get your lamp – or maybe I should bring down your mini-Persian rug – I know how the industrial carpet hurts your-”

“Can you please shut up for a second!”

“What happened?” he asks, suddenly concerned. “Is it mom?”

That’s always his first question when he sees me upset – especially after the debt collectors gave her a scare last month. “No, it’s not mom…”

“Then don’t do that! You almost gave me a vomit attack!”

“I’m sorry… I just… I’m running out of time. One of our clients… Lapidus was supposed to put through a transfer, and I just got my ass handed to me because it still hasn’t arrived.”