Wherewithal

The young blonde sat on a bench, contemplating. Passersby stared; isn't she cold? But she seemed not to notice them, nor the snow, nor the chilling winds. Occupied by her own limited world, she wore nothing more than dress slacks, a tasteful blouse, Mary Janes, and a dark grey peacoat. She looked like the picture of success, frozen for all time.

And that's what she was, she realized. This was her moment, her chance to shoot up like a star in the great expanse of night. But at what cost?

Go to Europe, they'd said. You'll be in charge.

Her own office, her own modern money machine in the midst of all that ancient historical beauty. Italian fashion, French cuisine, Spanish architecture, Belgian chocolate. She could have it all. They wanted her to.

And the compensation... Oh, the compensation! She would be set for life. She would never have to cook, do laundry, do anything ever again. Except her job.

But could she do anything else?

She frowned, trying to envision her life an ocean away. The exciting opportunities, the new responsibilities, the clean subways, the glittering Mediterranean. And the lonely apartment, the chatter of the television instead of his voice, the empty half of the bed.

Could she leave him behind?

She remembered what her mother had said. "You can live to work, or you can work to live. You've seen your father and I, you know which one we had to do. So make your choice wisely. And consider whether or not the money's really worth it."

So this blonde, this pretty, successful young woman, sat on the bench in the park in the freezing cold, and she thought.