It was love at first sight at the Tesco checkout. “Magdalena,” her name badge said. As she scanned my ready meal for one, she looked at me with her huge doe-eyes like she was peering into my soul and cleansing it at the same time.
Every Friday night, I passed through her till. It became our little conversation piece.
“It’s Ready-Meal-Friday, yes?” she would say, flashing me a dimpled smile.
It wasn’t until the fourth week that I finally plucked up the courage to ask her out.
To my surprise, she said yes. She walked into my flat after her shift, all wide-eyed and waif-like. We ate two ready meals. That was a year ago today. The rest, as they say, is history.
And now, six little numbers threaten to ruin it all.
“Check my lottery numbers for me? It’s a Roller this week”, she said, on her way out this morning.
“Rollover,” I corrected.
It was only when a text message popped up on my computer just now, from Magdalena to her work-mate, Adam, that I remembered to check for the ticket. “I need a lottery win” she joked in the text, declining an invitation to drinks tonight with her work-mates.
I clenched my jaw, reaching for the lottery ticket. Adam is a creep. At least I’m keeping tabs by overseeing the messages.
Now I stare at the offending ticket in disbelief, checking and re-checking the numbers against the jackpot results. They are a match! Every possible scenario runs through my mind:
1. Her smile leaps off the page of the local newspaper. She is holding up the giant cheque towards the camera, looking achingly fragile in comparison. She’s left me some money, of course, but she’s gone back to her family in Poland.
2. I wake up alone in the mansion we once shared and take a swig of whiskey straight from the bottle. It was impossible to keep ourselves to ourselves with the lifestyle we got swept up in. Inevitably she caught the eye of some charming playboy millionaire.
3. I’m bleeding in a ditch. My scumbag brother heard about our fortune and came to claim his share.
You get the picture. No good can come of this.
I light the gas-hob. The ticket twists in the dancing flames, the six little numbers distorting as if in a final flourish of protest, before melting away. While I’m at it, I throw in that letter that arrived today in her sister’s handwriting. Sooner or later she’s bound to come between us.
Magdalena’s key turns in the lock. She walks into the kitchen carrying a Tesco bag.
“Happy anniversary, moja miłość! I got us two ready-meals.”
“You are so romantic,” I say, kissing her forehead. “Who needs a lottery win when we have each other?”
“No win this time? Oh well.”
I take out the ready meals and remove their outer sleeves, exposing the pristine plastic film lids. Then I stab them violently with a fork.
