Commuter notes and punishments

We have a safe deposit box at a local bank. Specifically, it's at a bank branch located in a grocery store parking lot. We've been extremely happy users of online banking for years, so to go to this little building with limited hours, slow tellers and questions like, "Do you remember where your box is [located among the sequentially numbered boxes]?" is unusual and, frankly, unpleasant. It somehow seems bad in a way that going to the bank when we were small didn't. Now, being there feels like we've done something wrong.

So I had been feeling a little bad about sending Kerry to our safe deposit bank last weekend. Then I realized that she never has to visit the men's bathroom at Union Station in DC. It always smells of urine and loss. Just walking into the strangely cramped, perpetually broken facility is enough to bring your sins and misdeeds to the front of your thoughts, and you fear - or know - that you deserve no better than this. Yesterday, there was fresh blood on the hand dryer.