A droubble by Ionicus
We are on the dance floor at the Café de Paris.
Divorced, she tells me. Widower, I say.
It elicits sympathy - even though it’s not true - and increases the chances of getting my leg over.
We sit at a table and we have a few drinks. I give her the usual spiel, how attractive I find her and to be honest she ain’t bad.
I inflate the state of my finances, promise her a ruby ring when I receive my inheritance, and she is putty in my hands.
It isn’t far from the ballroom to a small hotel where Mr. and Mrs. Smith book a room for rest and recuperation.
I sit on the bed and my head feels muzzy; I must have had one too many.
“Give me a few minutes”, I say and she smiles sweetly.
I wake up few hours later and discover that she has gone and so has my wallet.
On the bedside table there is a photograph and note which says: ‘Sorry that I could not wait for your inheritance to come through. I have taken something on account. I have left the picture of your wife; give her my regards.’