Twenty-Five Cents

2012

Inside the pinstriped casing of Lady Josephine’s black and silver, single-strapped handbag, there is a little burgundy change pouch. I call that pouch Heartbreak City. I have never been in there, but I feel very heavy for those who have, because none of them ever stay long.

The reason I have never been to Heartbreak City is because I am much more valuable than that. The Lady has given me the luxury of my own private home within her fabulous purse, in a separate, cozy little pocket stitched into the inside lining. You see, to the Lady, I am not just any old coin; in fact, her and I have quite a rapport. I, as I try to explain with as little arrogance as possible, am Lady Josephine’s extra special, one and only, shopping cart quarter.

Ever since we first met in the parking lot of that old sushi place, where I was lying on the pavement, two feet from a storm drain, where she spotted me and rescued me, I’ve felt what it means to really be in love. And ever since that day, the thing I love most is every Tuesday, when me and her go grocery shopping. I love the way she uses me each time to unlock the shopping cart, and I love spending the time shopping with her. And when we’re done for the day, she returns the cart to where it belongs, removes me from the lock, and tucks me safely back inside my little home inside her purse, leaving me with enough good memories to get me through the week, until I get to see her again.

And that was my life. For nearly an entire year I felt nothing but happiness, warmth, and appreciation. But then one day, something perfectly normal happened.

It was Tuesday and we were in the grocery store. Everything felt perfectly normal, not that I was expecting otherwise. After shopping around throughout the store, we finally had everything on our list checked off, so we made our way to the cashier. When we finished paying and all of our groceries were bagged and ready to go, the Lady thanked the cashier and began to push the cart towards the door and to the car. 

Even as I sat in the cart, waiting for her to finish loading the groceries into the car, I remember being perfectly at ease. She was happy, I was happy, we were happy together. Once she had all the bags in the trunk and the trunk closed up, she turned towards me and the cart, but before she began to push, a young man in a grocery store uniform walked by.

“Can I take your cart, Miss?” he asked politely, offering her a quarter.

“Why thank you,” she replied, and she handed him the cart. He placed the new quarter in her soft, pale hand and walked away, pushing me and the cart across the parking lot and out of her life. The last I ever saw of Lady Josephine was her tucking her new quarter into that separate, cozy little pocket stitched into the inside lining of her fabulous purse, and that’s when I realized I was never as special to her as she was to me.

THE END