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You put the money in the drawer. You know this. You remember doing it.

You can still feel her hand in the small of your back. You had been dancing in the kitchen. She had carefully undone your apron and was leading you to bed. It was then that she asked you to put the money somewhere safe.

You had stopped asking questions before this day. You had stopped asking questions of her long before the others. You allowed her more concessions. You didn’t want to know everything. You loved how it was. How it was different. You had fallen hard. Lip-biting, fist-clenching, gut-wrenchingly hard. Nothing like the boys before. So you didn’t ask. You knew better than to question a good thing.

When you woke the next morning, hazy-eyed in the already searing morning sun, you flung your arm over to her side and found an empty bed. You panicked for a second before remembering what she said. She would have left before the dawn. She would have tried to get 100 kilometres under her belt before the heat would turn the road ahead to a simmering pan. It started to come back to you slowly as you stared at the ceiling fan paring the broiling air.

You remembered the money and went to the drawer. You pulled out all the mismatched socks and the panties with their daggy daisy prints and their flaccid elastic. You burrowed until you reached the chipping ply of the back. It wasn’t there. Next you searched the biscuit jar, the freezer, the cistern, the urn containing her grandfather’s ashes. Gone. Not a hint. Not a crumb. You had lost it.

You weren’t sure how long you searched, but by the time you had turned the house upside down it was beyond hot. A stinker, she would have said. The fetid humidity made you retch. You stripped slowly, peeling the slack wet nightgown from your gleaming skin. You longed for a cold shower but the water coming from the pipes in the roof was tepid. It was already too late for cool.

You took the peas from the freezer, slapped them on the back of your neck and tried to make a plan. You had other money. You would go into town and simply withdraw the cash. Or get a loan. People did that.

You waited for the bus, the exact change like stones swimming in your sweaty palms. Once on board you were immediately and reluctantly suctioned to the vinyl seats. The bus was sluggish and the stops agonisingly long. You yearned for the ute. For her in the driver’s seat, hand glued to your knee, removing it only to shift gears.

You walked into the bank. You tried to be confident, purposeful. But you didn’t know what to do, which forms to fill in. She normally gave you cash for the groceries. You didn’t have a card. You hadn’t wanted one. You hadn’t a need.

You showed them the passbook you had carried around since your childhood. The teller smirked. She explained that the account was closed. She was sorry but there was nothing left. She apologised in a way that made you feel it was your fault. You wondered how she had been able to do that.

You went back to the bus stop. The sun was at its igneous apex. You couldn’t think straight. You fumbled for money in your pocket. You had enough to get home. But it wouldn’t be home if you had lost the money. You had made mistakes before. You knew how it was when you let someone down. There were signs she was different, forgiving even. She hadn’t yelled or hit you when you burned the dinner or when you left the gate open and the dog ran away. Her indulgence had made you want to try harder, for her to be proud of you. You had learned to bake.

But this was money. Nothing is more important than that. Not even family or love. Or whatever you were to each other. So you kept walking, past the bus stop. You wouldn’t go home without it. You saw the pawn shop in the distance and wondered if you had anything to sell. You patted yourself down and found nothing. Your brother had sold your jewellery before he left two summers ago. It was only sentimental anyway. Your grandmother’s brooch, your mother’s ring. Sentiments were all you had ever owned. You kept walking.

It was then that you saw him. Striding out of the pub with those same bow legs, like he’d just walked off a horse. The same Akubra with the growing sweat patch at the forehead. Same scuff-toed, dusty boots. Same stonewash. Same flannelette shirt with sleeves rolled, neck unbuttoned a little too far, tobacco pouch bulging from the breast pocket. Just like you left him.

He tipped his hat. It made you sick. He wasn’t a gentleman and you knew he didn’t think you a lady. You knew the rumours he had fuelled. It had been a scandal that spread faster than bushfire. But no one knew what to do with you. Or her. You can’t fight a woman. So they just stared. And whispered. And gave you the worst cuts of meat and refused her service at the bar. And when your fences had been cut and the tyres on the ute slashed, the Police said they couldn’t do anything. She was angry at first. Then she realised what she’d stolen, and that no one would ever be able to do anything.

You aren’t quite sure what you said to him. You remember you had passed each other on the street. You had both turned, in afterthought. You must have told him what happened with the money. He had laughed: cavernous, mocking, and sour as sweat. He said he had known one day you would come back. But he didn’t think it would be like this.

You had tried to be professional. Business-like. Offer a simple transaction. He had asked why he should pay for something he could have whenever he liked. You were silent. You both knew he could never have you.

In the cocky way he regarded you now, he had hoped you would forget how he used to cry after he came inside you, his love and sorrow like an avalanche crushing your tiny body. You realised he still loved you. No one could ever hurt him as much.

‘How much?’ he asked offhandedly. You saw that you finally had something of worth; something you could sell. ‘You must really love her,’ he said. It made you feel dizzy to hear him speak of her, but you bit your lip, and steadied yourself. ‘I do,’ you murmured, almost without sound.

He led you back to his ute in the dusty pub car park. You started to unbutton your dress and he said to stop. He said it with a ferocity you had never known in him before. You wondered if he was like this with his new wife.

He drove you to the shearing shed. Neither of you spoke as he pushed open the heavy wooden doors. You were staggered by the heated reek of sheep manure.

He didn’t take off his boots. He pressed you against the half-opened bales. The cast-off wool with its burs and dags scratched the backs of your thighs as he pushed your dress up. It was rough. You knew it would be. He was still angry. He would probably always be angry. This was no consolation.

Neither of you were really there; in that shed with dusk slipping through the wooden slats and the air still hot. Hot and still. Presence was loss you couldn’t afford yourselves.

He offered to drop you home. It was too kind, too polite. You felt bile surge in your throat. He didn’t wish you well. He wished you dead. Or unhappy. Or both. It’s how it must be for the one who is left. Neither of you were sure who should say thank you as he pushed the money into your hand. You said nothing and started the long walk.

It was dark by the time you were home. Entirely dark. Dark as it only can be in the bush. Melanoma dark that spreads quickly and cloaks the land, filling every crevice, every burrow, with its inky tendrils. You had just reached the homestead and walked your hands over the wall to find the switch when you saw her headlights swing into the gravel drive.

She kissed you. She kissed you hard. You couldn’t stand it, because of the wet stench of him between your legs. She wanted to shower with you. You said you couldn’t; said you were bleeding. You locked the door and scrubbed yourself. You scoured until you bled.

You were putting the notes in the drawer when she called out, ‘Oh love, I got the money before I left this morning. I forgot to tell you. I’m sorry. You weren’t worried were you?’

While tea was on the stove and she was smoking on the porch, you went to the drawer. You held the money in your hands. You counted the slimy notes with disgust. You heard the screen door bounce on its hinges and hurriedly tried to stuff the money into your apron. The notes were plastic, slick and new and the wad wouldn’t fold. It almost burst out, but you kept your hand on it. Kept pushing it down; until it stayed.

She ate the dinner you prepared but you found it almost impossible to swallow. Each mouthful became a boulder in your throat: huge and arid and immovable. You hastily piled the plates and started to wash up, wincing as she stood behind you, sweeping the strands of lank hair behind your ears and turning you to face her. You held your breath. ‘Thank you for dinner,’ she said.

Simple. It was so simple. It could be so simple. You didn’t know if you were grateful or furious for her easy-going, lenient love.

Later, when it was finally cool enough and you could bear to be touched, she took your waist. You danced around the tiny kitchen to a skipping copy of a Benny Goodman song about foolish things. The money, still loosely coiled in the front pocket of your apron, almost sprung out. Your feet faltered and your lips let slip a tiny gasp. But she didn’t notice. And you kept dancing, not saying a word. Not stopping even after the record had spun to its crackling end.

CATE BAILEY is a 25-year-old psychiatry registrar, who lives in Australia. ‘Concessions’ is the first story she has ever had published. The long hours she works interfere with her writing – but also help her gain insight into people in ‘heart-breaking situations’. She collects vintage clothes, has a black belt in tae kwon do and would love (for some reason) to own a whippet.

This story is the first prize-winner of the 2011 Mslexia Short Story Competition. All of the winning stories are published in the current issue of Mslexia. For the latest on the writing world, publishing and creativity subscribe now. To sample more Mslexia features or to find out about the latest issue click here.