A man carries cash. This is an obscure statement on its own but to understand this, you must first know the events that led up to this epiphany.
Hope is a fickle thing. The kind of thing that, when you see a really beautiful woman, a twelve, sitting across from you at the bar, makes you think you have a shot. So you order two drinks, one for you and what she’s having and walk right up to her. But by the time you sit down, it’s gone, that elusive hope that drove you there in the first place.
And now she’s giving you the look that only girls that hot can give. The one that makes you wither and turn to mush. Because you don’t know what to say. Because your mind is blank.
So you push her drink towards her and go, “for you…” and think hopeful. She smiles. And you hear that hopefully familiar sound of ice breaking.