No One Could Find Out What Was in My Purse

Or how badly I needed it

Claire Franky
4 min readJan 31, 2024


Photo by Evelyn Semenyuk on Unsplash

The bartender placed the fruity concoction on the bar in front of me. One for me and one for each of the friends I was with.

“I need this cocktail!” One of them shouted before slurping at her oversized beverage. I eyed mine carefully, squeezing my purse instinctively, and wondered why the fuck I wasn’t in bed eating a family-sized portion of lasagne.

It was a Saturday night.


The bar was crowded. We Bambi-walked our way to a small, round high-top. I slid onto a stool, soon realizing that my legs were too short to reach the footrest. Legs dangling, I sipped my obnoxious cocktail and pretended not to be thinking about wool cardigans.

I battled on, gulping from my vase as we chatted about new clubs and bars opening in the city in an attempt to clutch on to our early thirties.

I’ll be using “early thirties” until I’m forty-nine.

Slapping my empty glass on the table, I felt it. It was happening already. I took a deep breath, clutched my purse tightly, and willed it to stop.

“I got us vodka martinis,” one of the shrews announced, placing drinks on the table.

Fuck, I’m going to need an ambulance. Or a hammock.

I forced a smile and took a sip. Another conversation broke out about shoes or dusting or carving wicker dicks, (who fucking cares), as more people stuffed their stupid bodies into the small, enclosed space. The bar was getting louder and warmer.

Halfway through my vodka martini, it intensified. I knew I was in trouble. My black and silver purse sat on my lap. My fingers ran along its opening as I glanced around me. I was surrounded. My fingers froze.

“Franky! It’s your round,” the pouty one said.

Great. I can’t wait to wave goodbye to sixty bucks.

Leaving my drink unfinished, I shuffled to the bar, fighting for a space to rest my elbows. The bartender soon found me and asked for my order.