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For weeks you have lain idly on your bed, mentally dressing for this disclosure of love—what shoes to wear, a proper lapel, the obvious clash of a tie. And you can picture her clearer than any banknote, her window as a frame. That initial glance of her eyes, the salutation and quick smile, then you push her your check which comes back in bills laid crisp and flat, snapped like bed sheets.

But the preparations have all been made. Each motion rehearsed before a judging mirror. Tomorrow will find you in a teller's queue studying the lines on a fat woman's nape. Each step insisting that an arm is already pulling you back. Each breath nervous and borrowed as on the confessional floor. But it is your turn now and somewhat alien is the release of your zipper's buzz.

You wait for her face to click—the swallowed scream, quick shower of coats, cold satin lining.