Snapshot

by Kay Cove

“What do I mean to you, Dex?” He fishes his wallet out of his back pocket. I never paid attention before, but after tonight’s shocking revelation, I can’t help but notice that Dex’s wallet is sleek and black. There’s no huge wad of cash in there. There also aren’t many cards. Just one black card that’s probably as powerful as one hundred high-limit credit cards. He pulls out a faded folded bill from behind his ID, resting in the dedicated plastic compartment. “Here,” he says, then hands it to me. I see the thick ten on the right corner. “I’m not a gold digger or anything, but knowing how rich you are, this is kind of insulting.” I smirk. “So sassy,” he mumbles under his breath. He takes the bill back and unfolds it carefully so I can see the purple nail polish mark at the top right corner. Looking pleased, he places it back in my palm. It literally feels like the air is sucked out of my lungs. I try to inhale, but nothing happens. “This is?” I ask, somehow managing the two words through my breathlessness. “From the first time we met. My souvenir,” he says. There are little tells that he’s nervous. Not on his expression, that’s completely composed. Dex has a bulletproof poker face. It’s how his thumb is subtly twitching, so he tucks it into his fist. His jaw is clenched and he’s so still, like he stopped breathing as well. I run my finger over the glittery purple nail polish streak. The polish is still vibrant even though the bill looks worse for wear. All this time, he did...