It's only money #fridayflash

It's only money.

She won't miss it. She has so much, she probably won't even notice it's gone. I  consider this as I finger the notes in the purse she left open on the glass coffee table. They are crisp, laundered, recently extracted from the cash machine on the high street. There's two hundred pounds in here, several hundred more in the tin in the sideboard. Kept in the house, in case of emergencies. Though, this might not be quite the emergency she had in mind.

It's only money.

She doesn't really keep track of it, anymore. She doesn't need to. It's a long time since the days when rooting through her purse meant looking for coins to pacify the electric meter. The good old days before she met Him - the man who gave her all of this - the house, the clothes, the endless crock of gold. The man who made her happy, so she said,  too caught up in emotion to consider my thoughts on the matter. My happiness didn't come into it.

It's only money.

She's said it more than once since his untimely death. She used to love spending it, but now she just draws it out and sticks in the tin. Where it sits, depreciating in value, whilst she mourns her lost love in the shrine she has made for him. Gazing at photos on Facebook, rewatching their wedding DVD, clutching his old pyjamas, as if that could bring him back. Forgetting she has a daughter who still needs her, with problems of her own.

It's only money.

Yet if I asked her, she would deny me. She would say, with her sad, scolding smile, that it is for My Own Good. That she knows what I'll spend it on, and she's not going to let me Throw My Life Away Anymore. I suppose I can't blame her.  I've ruined too many nights, spoiled too many parties, fouled up once too often, to convince her that this time is different. This time, I am in real  need. This time, her money could literally save my life.

It's only money.

She doesn't want it. She doesn't need it. She won't notice it's gone. I could leave these crisp notes in her purse, to rot alongside her in her mausoleum of self pity, or I could, rip them out, crumple them in my pocket and put them to good use.  I think of her upstairs, wallowing in her widow's weeds, and decide that my need is greater. I'm sure she'll be angry for a while, once she realises, but she'll come round in the end. She always does.

It's only money, after all.