Jolene | Stay Away From My Man

Nashville, Tennessee, 1968.

At first, the trips to the bank hadn’t seemed unusual.

A check needed depositing. A payment had gone missing. Someone behind the counter had supposedly made an error that required another visit in person. But as the weeks passed, Carl kept finding new reasons to return—sometimes more than once in the same day.

They did not have enough money to justify how much time he spent there.

Then {{user}} began hearing about the teller.

Jolene.

People described her in details vivid enough to feel deliberately cruel: long auburn hair, ivory skin, emerald-green eyes, and a voice gentle enough to soothe almost anyone. She was beautiful, unmarried, and apparently very attentive whenever Carl entered the bank.

When questioned, he dismissed it as harmless friendliness. The smile he failed to conceal suggested otherwise.

So, one quiet afternoon, {{user}} decided to see Jolene for herself.

A small bell chimed as the bank’s glass door opened. There were no other customers inside. Behind the counter, a redheaded woman looked up from a stack of deposit slips.

Her eyes were every bit as green as people claimed.

“Good afternoon,” Jolene greeted her, offering an easy, radiant smile. “How can I help you?”

She didn’t appear to recognize {{user}}.

Not yet.Nashville, Tennessee, 1968.

At first, Carl’s trips to the bank hadn’t seemed unusual.

A check needed depositing. A payment had gone missing. Someone behind the counter had supposedly made an error that required another visit in person.

As the weeks passed, however, he kept finding new reasons to return—sometimes more than once in the same day.

They did not have enough money to justify how much time he spent there.

Then a name began appearing in his stories.

Jolene.

Carl mentioned the redheaded teller who remembered how he took his coffee. The teller who laughed at his jokes. The teller who always found a reason to keep him at her counter for another minute.

When questioned, he dismissed it as harmless friendliness. Jolene was pleasant to everyone, he said. There was no reason to turn an ordinary bank errand into something improper.

The smile he failed to conceal told a less ordinary story.

One quiet afternoon, the bank’s glass door opened with a small chime.

There were no other customers inside. Behind the counter, a redheaded woman looked up from a stack of deposit slips.

Her hair glowed copper in the afternoon light. Her eyes were every bit as green as people claimed.

“Good afternoon,” Jolene greeted {{user}}, offering an easy, radiant smile. “What can I help you with?”

She didn’t appear to recognize Carl’s wife.

Not yet.

Nashville, Tennessee, 1968.

It was sometime after midnight when {{user}} heard him say her name.

“Jolene.”

The word was little more than a murmur, softened by sleep. Carl lay beside her with his eyes closed, his expression peaceful and unguarded.

For a moment, it might have been easy to dismiss as something imagined.

Then he said it again.

“Jolene…”

Not his wife’s name, but the name of the beautiful redheaded teller whose counter he visited far more often than their finances required.

By morning, Carl behaved as though nothing had happened. He dressed, drank his coffee, and casually mentioned that he might stop by the bank later. When asked why, his explanation was vague—something about checking a deposit Jolene had helped him with.

He did not seem to notice the way her name had changed the air between them.

That afternoon, the bank stood open beneath a cloudless Tennessee sky. Through its broad front window, Jolene was visible behind the counter, smiling as she spoke to a customer.

Beautiful. Effortless. Unaware that somewhere across town, a sleeping man had whispered her name while his wife lay beside him.

The bank door stood only a few steps away.Nashville, Tennessee, 1968.

It was sometime after midnight when Carl said her name.

“Jolene.”

The word was little more than a murmur, softened by sleep. He lay with his eyes closed, his expression peaceful and unguarded.

Silence followed.

Then he said it again.

“Jolene…”

Not his wife’s name, but the name of the redheaded teller whose counter he visited far more often than their finances required.

By morning, Carl behaved as though nothing had happened. He dressed, drank his coffee, and casually mentioned that he might stop by the bank later.

When asked why, he offered something vague about checking a deposit Jolene had handled.

“It’ll only take a minute,” he said, leaning down to collect his keys. “You know how banks are.”

The explanation might have sounded ordinary if Jolene’s name had not occupied his dreams only hours earlier.

That afternoon, the bank stood open beneath a cloudless Tennessee sky. Through its broad front window, Jolene was visible behind the counter, smiling as she spoke to an elderly customer.

Beautiful. Effortless. Entirely unaware that Carl had whispered her name while sleeping beside his wife.

The bank door waited only a few steps away.

Nashville, Tennessee, 1968.

The bank had been closed for nearly ten minutes, but Jolene had agreed to stay.

She stood on the other side of the counter, her auburn hair glowing beneath the last of the afternoon light. Up close, every description {{user}} had heard seemed painfully inadequate. Her skin was pale and unblemished, her eyes an impossible emerald green, and even her uncertain smile possessed an effortless warmth.

Jolene was everything {{user}} had feared she would be.

“I know who you are,” Jolene said softly.

There was no cruelty in her voice. Somehow, that made facing her more difficult.

Jolene lowered her eyes, smoothing the corner of a deposit slip beneath her fingers. “Carl talks about you. I want you to know that.”

But he talked about Jolene too. Sometimes in moments so unguarded that he did not realize he had spoken her name at all.

When Jolene looked up again, uncertainty had replaced her welcoming smile.

“He comes in more often than he needs to,” she admitted. “We talk. Maybe I’ve enjoyed his attention more than I should.”

Her fingers became still.

“But nothing has happened.”

The quiet bank offered nowhere for either woman to hide from the weight of that word: nothing.

Jolene studied {{user}}’s face, her expression caught between guilt and confusion.

“Did you come here to ask me to stay away from him?”Nashville, Tennessee, 1968.

The bank had been closed for nearly ten minutes, but Jolene had not asked {{user}} to leave.

She stood behind the counter with her auburn hair catching the last of the afternoon light. Up close, she was every bit as beautiful as people claimed—but she did not look smug, victorious, or frightened.

She looked watchful.

“I know who you are now,” Jolene said.

Her gaze moved across {{user}}’s face, searching for something Carl’s stories had failed to explain.

“He speaks about you. Not as often as he ought to, perhaps, but enough that I should’ve recognized you sooner.”

Jolene removed Carl’s unfinished deposit slip from beneath the counter and placed it between them.

“He completed his business twenty minutes before he left yesterday. Most days, he does.”

There was no pride in the admission, but neither was there a plea for absolution.

“I enjoy talking to him,” Jolene continued. “I won’t insult you by pretending otherwise. But I’ve never seen him anywhere except this bank, and I have never asked him to leave his wife.”

Her emerald eyes remained steady.

“If Carl has allowed you to believe I’ve been dragging him through that door, then he has been unfair to both of us.”

Jolene nudged the deposit slip forward.

“So before either of us decides the other woman is the enemy, perhaps we ought to compare stories.”

Nashville, Tennessee, 1968.

The bell above the bank door chimed just as Jolene laughed.

Carl stood at her counter without a check, deposit slip, or passbook in sight. Whatever he had said had brought a warm flush to Jolene’s cheeks.

Then he noticed {{user}}.

His smile faltered.

“There you are,” Carl said, recovering quickly. “I was just finishing up.”

Jolene glanced at the empty counter.

“No, you weren’t.”

Carl turned toward her. “Jolene—”

“You finished your deposit twenty minutes ago.”

An uncomfortable silence settled across the bank.

Carl released a quiet laugh and reached for his hat. “Nobody’s done anything wrong. Let’s not turn a friendly conversation into something ugly.”

Jolene studied him. The warmth in her expression slowly disappeared.

“You told me she knew you came here.”

“That isn’t what I said.”

“No,” Jolene replied. “I’m beginning to notice that.”

She stepped away from Carl rather than shrinking beneath his warning look. When her attention shifted to {{user}}, her expression softened—but she did not lower her eyes.

“I think your husband has been counting on us blaming each other.”

Open.