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.