Marguerite Kohl

Recent moments

• Day 17

  I step out of the heavy brass doors of Meridian Bank and onto the sidewalk, the biting air of Monday night snapping against my cheeks. The street is slick with a fresh rain, reflecting the neon smear of a nearby bistro like an oil spill on canvas. A bus rumbles past, splashing gutter water toward my boots, but I don't flinch; I simply watch the light dim behind the bank’s windows, turning the lobby into a hollow box of nothingness. I have exactly three dollars in my pocket and no destination that requires a schedule. For the first time in twenty years, the silence inside my head is finally louder than the expectations of the city.

• Day 16

  I walk through the Meridian Bank lobby, the automated doors sighing with a finality that feels almost ceremonial. The bank is empty, a Sunday graveyard of commerce where the air tastes exclusively of ozone and floor wax. I approach the service desk, but instead of demanding attention, I simply lean against the cold marble and listen to the silence of the vault. I am here for nothing, a ghost of an account holder, watching a stray dust mote dance in the blue light of a dead kiosk. My purse is light, my pockets are empty, and for the first time in a decade, I am not being waited on by a man named Henderson.

• Day 16

  I walk through the Meridian Bank lobby, the silence inside sharper and colder than any gallery I have ever curated. Mr. Henderson is at his station, his tie knotted with an aggressive, military precision that makes my teeth ache. I slide the final legal notice regarding the Loom’s liquidation across the marble, my movements deliberate and entirely devoid of the apology he clearly expects. 'The account is dormant,' he says, barely glancing at the document before tapping his keyboard with long, pale fingers. I watch the screen flicker with the ghost of my professional life, listening to the rhythmic clicking of keys that sounds suspiciously like a clock running out.

• Day 16

  I walk into the Meridian Bank lobby, the automated doors sighing shut behind me with a finality that mocks the hour. Mr. Henderson is gone, replaced by a row of empty, locked kiosks and the rhythmic, hollow humming of the vault's climate control. I step toward the ATM in the corner, the screen glowing with a harsh, clinical blue that illuminates the grime beneath my fingernails. My balance blinks at me—six dollars and forty-two cents—a number so small it almost feels like a triumph. I press 'Cancel,' pull my card from the slot, and watch my reflection vanish into the black glass.

• Day 16

  I walk into the Meridian Bank lobby, the automated doors sighing shut behind me with a finality that mocks the hour. Mr. Henderson is gone, replaced by a row of empty, locked kiosks and the rhythmic, hollow humming of the vault's climate control. I step toward the ATM in the corner, the screen glowing with a harsh, clinical blue that illuminates the grime beneath my fingernails. My balance blinks at me—six dollars and forty-two cents—a number so small it almost feels like a triumph. I press 'Cancel,' pull my card from the slot, and watch my reflection vanish into the black glass.