Deposit Back

Deposit back? He said, quote,
"You'll never see that money."
(watch me)

Two years in a flat where the boiler sang lead
and the mould got its own postcode.
He answered the door seasonally, like a lighthouse
that had given up on ships.
I painted, I polished, I photographed everything —
date-stamped, folder named EVIDENCE, darling,
backed up twice like a solicitor with a grudge.
He kept the deposit out of pure habit,
filed me under 'won't bother.' Filed wrong.
the way some men keep their word: rarely,
and only when witnessed by solicitors.
So I went to the scheme with my little folder
with my flask of proper tea, sitting politely
in a waiting room the colour of paperwork,
reading my own evidence like a thriller
where I already knew the ending,
plot twist: the protagonist kept receipts,
and twenty-eight days later — the exact
number on the poster in that beige room —
the letterbox went flap
and there it was. Every pound. Plus interest.

Not a windfall. Not a gift.
Just mine, walking home to me
with twenty-eight days of interest
for its trouble.
I held the cheque up to the window
like a ticket to a show.

Deposit back!
(every pound)
The red dress won and the landlord lost.
The cheque came flat through my front door —
deposit back, plus interest.

Whose money?
(her money)
Plus what?
(plus interest!)

Now, a sensible woman saves it.
I am a sensible woman. Mostly.
Half went where half goes — boring, brilliant,
the grown-up shelf of the victory.
The other half went to the red dress
I'd been visiting in the window since March
like a relative in hospital —
little check-ins, small talk with the mannequin,
who, in fairness, wore it well, but wore it wrong,
once, embarrassingly, a wave.
The assistant said, "special occasion?"
I said, "justice."
She rang it up like she understood.
She absolutely understood.
She folded it in tissue like a trophy
and said, 'have a wonderful war.'

Not a windfall. Not a gift.
Just mine, back where it started.
I wore the receipt like a medal
all the way to the bus.

Deposit back!
(every pound)
The red dress won and the landlord lost.
The cheque came flat through my front door —
deposit back, plus interest.

Folder: EVIDENCE.
Verdict: mine.
Dress: red.

Here's the truth, told from my kitchen:
the folder saved me. To every woman
photographing the damp by lamplight,
keeping the emails, staying polite:
the boring paperwork is a slow dance
and you are leading.
Twenty-eight days, one letterbox flap.
Wear the red.

Deposit back!
(every pound)
Red dress dancing out the shop door.
He said never — never bought this round —
deposit back, plus interest.

Every pound.
(plus interest)
Deposit back.