As the man fumbles and ruts I'm reminded of that old nursery rhyme, Peter, Peter, the pumpkin eater.  Was this why he couldn't keep her?  Three shallow thrusts and he rolls off, snoring within seconds, too drunk to realize he was barely even inside.  

Grabbing my dress, shoes, and the crisp bills from the dresser, I slip out the door.  

It's Halloween. He expects me home for a treat.  The trick's on him. 

Hours later, sated and well fucked, I pick up the phone, type then hit send.

"You won't keep me in a pumpkin shell. We're done."