Five Dollars

He gave her five dollars.

I owe you for the sandwich, he said, and she held it in her hand. The note was pink and old; faded from the hands touching and the cold coins clanging. She wondered how many others had held it before.

He gave her five dollars.

It’s value is going to increase, he said. It’s an old, original note.

She could feel the seat beneath her pressing into the flesh of her thighs. The blood chilling in her ankles from ground as he spoke. She did not seem to mind the cold that night.

He gave her five dollars.

She put the pink note in the back of her wallet. There’s a section where she would place receipts and phone numbers. Stolen business cards. Stamps. That’s where she put the note. Safe and warm, to let it grow. When she put the wallet in her bag, she could feel it like a ballast; heavy with the promise of what could be. It sat stagnant in the wallet, a saving of finance and feeling, waiting for withdrawal.

He gave her five dollars.

The phone calls from him stopped around the same time she spent that five dollar note. She purchased a soy latte from the health food store in town. As she handed over that five dollar note she remembered that she earns her own money, and lives her own life.

She spent that five dollars.

She drank it down, hot and sweet. And it tasted good.

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