Looking at them now, he marvels how they don’t even seem to have come from his hand. There’s something desperate—and yet also carefree—about the way his name glides across the bill. His handwriting is usually more elegant and controlled.
He’d like to think that someone else wrote it, but he has long given up lying to himself. He’s long given up questioning the reason he will never throw it away—why it is folded neatly into a square, permanently stored in the third card slot of his now shabby leather wallet.