by Kevin Rabas

When the loan officer shakes my hand, his hand is a big mitt, ham shank, boxer’s big thick grip, and, though he’s kindly, he’s big, the kindly high school quarterback turned accountant, and he has that talc powder scent, dusted, along with strong cologne and new money, greenbacks fresh from the mint, crisp as new printer paper, with that whiplash snap when you rifle the bills, something never to be felt again: that freedom, that easy going feel, that blank check.