You pulled out an extra hundred dollar bill from the teller. It’s crisp and feels like an expensive suit you’ll never wear. Tastes like a rich dessert after you’re already full. Smells the way midlife crisis sports car upholstery smells in your dreams, the ones where you’re taller and have better posture. The patriotic fibers bleed into your fingertips causing everything you touch to be left with imprints of stars and stripes. The paper towel dispenser in the bathroom at Walmart. The salt and pepper shakers at the Mexican restaurant. Your lover’s breasts. You wipe your brow in an act of surrender wondering when this Betsy Ross bs will end. A liverspotted veteran walks by and salutes you.