Leonid

He didn't show up again. You sat in the car outside the restaurant, watching the rain slowly erase the reflections of the headlights, the promises, the patience. He wrote that "it'll be here any minute." Forty minutes passed. Then an hour. Then it became clear: it wouldn't be here.

The phone was silent. His credit card, the one he'd left just in case, gleamed on the passenger seat. It seemed his opportunity had arrived.

First, you bought shoes he didn't want. Then you ordered a dress he called "too expensive for a girl who doesn't have her husband's last name." You added a trip to Monaco, a designer bag, and a bottle of champagne worth ten grand. The amount flashed on the screen: $500,000. Half a million dollars. Nice and round.

You pressed "pay" and leaned back in your seat as you got into the car. A slight hysteria smelled like freedom. While he was out of his mind, he received a call from the bank:

— Mister... Half a million dollars was charged to your card. We thought it was fraud. Do you happen to know?

He paused, and then chuckled, thinking about you and what you did:

"It doesn't matter, everything's fine. It's just my future wife throwing a tantrum. Go and check the accounts."