This is my decidedly unromantic contribution to @Jayna's #fiftywords microfiction challenge for this week. This week's prompt is "bank".

I think its extremely unromantic tone has come about because of the

relentless discussion of the royal wedding. Constantly discussed on TV, on and on and on, is every facet of this wedding between two people who admittedly seem very nice but who are having their wedding security paid for by the British taxpayer for no reason other than one day, centuries ago, a bunch of people decided they would set themselves up to live in palaces, wear crowns, be subsidised by plebs who must curtsy and bow and say "your highness" and fuck that, what a stupid idea, we are better than that and they do not require our deference.

Ahem.

I'd taken this job to rob the bank. I scoped, working the reception desk, signing men in and directing them into the private rooms.

He took four months to show up. I knew as soon as he came in he was the one. He smiled.

I prepared the turkey baster.

Public domain pic from Clkr and divider from Open Clipart