Six Little Numbers

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.

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