He knew when I got paid on Fridays.
It was routine. The money would go straight into my bank account, but it never stayed there for long.
As soon as I walked through the door, he’d be waiting. Sometimes with a smile, sometimes with a look that said he wasn’t in the mood for delays. “Cashpoint,” was all he had to say.
I worked my butt off all week for that cash, but I never got to keep any of it.
We’d walk to the machine together, him a step behind me, close enough to remind me there was no other choice. I’d punch in my PIN, hear the mechanical whir of the cash being counted, and pull out the notes, my fingers tight around them.
For a moment, they were mine.
Then they weren’t.
He’d take the money without a second glance, stuffing it into his pocket like it belonged to him. Like I belonged to him.
It felt like all my hard work was for nothing.
Like I was just there to keep his pockets full, to make sure he never went without.
And I knew exactly where it was going. Straight to the pub. To his mates. To rounds of drinks I never got to have.
Some weeks, I’d try to hold onto a little. A few coins in my pocket, a small note tucked into my sock, hoping he wouldn’t notice.
He always noticed.
“All of it,” he’d say, holding out his hand. “Don’t piss me about.”
So I gave it to him.
Every time.
And I walked home empty-handed, knowing I’d spend another week working myself to exhaustion, just to do it all over again.
