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The tiny secure office was on a high floor in a Collins Street building. Buzzed in after a security camera check, I stood with fluorescent lights humming overhead, watching a stranger weigh my past.
The gold Kozminsky studs my ex gave me on my 28th birthday. Too matronly then, too loaded now. Five broken hoop earrings. A St Christopher medal from God knows when. The gold dealer handed me an envelope with $873 cash, and I felt nothing.
Well, not totally true. I felt no regret. But I felt lighter. The eastern suburbs matrons who'd whispered that this gold guy was the hottest contact in town were right. A purge of the jewellery box and an impersonal handover felt really good.
Nothing revolutionary, but I've been cleaning house. Literally and emotionally.