The Cash Card

I remember the look on her face when I first arrived: it was like she’d been waiting for me, like she’d lost something and now that I was here that void had been filled.

We went for dinner that very night: burrata, steak tartare and red wine. It was wonderful. And it felt like my life had begun, that I’d finally found my purpose. The following night we caught a film: I bought her the popcorn, which she ate greedily – later finding remnants of it in her bra. It wasn’t long till we were booking flights and hotels: our lives now cosily entwined.

There was other stuff too: parties, pubs, the usual shenanigans you associate with the weekend. Life, after all, isn’t just one big cheesy romantic transaction. And early on in our relationship she called her ‘man’ one Thursday night. I’d never actually done cocaine before, but it turned out I was pretty nifty at racking up lines.

After a year though it started to happen more and more often; the dinners subsided and we’d skip straight to the drugs. The nights became later: the chat riddled with anxiety and the same old stories being told. Sundays were no longer spent going for brunch, but instead conked out in bed and refusing to leave the house. On those days it felt like I no longer had a function.

Then one day she just left me. I found myself in a field at the end of a bender without her at my side. I waited, but she never returned. I don’t even know if she looked for me. It’s for the best I guess, the drugs were getting too much –I was practically coated in them. But damn, when we were good, we were brilliant.

I’d like to say that I’ve moved on - that I found someone better - but the next person to pick me up, promptly tore me apart.

HER: Shit, I’ve lost my card.