She called him, but his voicemail picked up after just two rings. The bastard had sent her to voicemail. Sure, he might have been in a meeting, or driving, or had some other excuse, but that didn’t make her feel any better.
The robotic voice he’d recorded off of his laptop answered, told her he was unable to come to the phone right now and would she please leave a message. She waited until the telltale beep that told her it was her turn to speak, then she held the receiver up to her ass and let one rip.
She hung up and got dressed. A t-shirt and shorts. No bra, because fuck anyone who felt like calling her out on it.
She beheaded the Santa Claus cookie jar they’d never bothered to put away and shoved her arm down the jolly old elf’s neck. Her fingers scraped the ceramic bottom and found nothing.
“Shit,” she said aloud.
In the freezer, she felt around behind the ice cube trays for the jar they’d frozen their credit card in, but that was gone too.
In his pants drawer, she searched through pockets, finding nothing but lint and a receipt from the comic book store, which he’d obviously left for her, the prick. He could still have his addictions but she couldn’t have hers?
She went to her purse last, because she already knew what she’d find, knew from her trip to the packie the night before that she was down to her last dime. But she looked anyway, dumping the coin into her palm. She ran her thumb along good old FDR’s profile, then stuffed it into her pocket.
Her phone buzzed in her back pocket. She waited a moment before taking a look, took a deep breath before seeing what he had to say.
“I’ll bring groceries,” the text message read. “The M&M’s should tide you over until then.”
The M&Ms, she thought, locking the screen. If the bastard only knew.
To be continued…