Prerogative

She tapped one wild red nail to her lips, contemplating, before pointing at the exquisite mink coat. He exhaled, half in amusement, half in despair, but he pulled the checkbook from his blazer pocket anyway.

When they met, she'd been a vegetarian, and he'd been poor. They shared ramen noodles and their opinions on capitalism. Then they graduated, and the Real World shook up their little snow globe of ideals. Nine to five became the numbers of their day, and five to nine the zeroes of his paycheck. He was a smart, valuable man, it seemed, and his company rewarded him for that. She was his beautiful companion, and he rewarded her for that.

As he wrote out the check, he wondered how many children this coat could feed, clothe, shelter, heal. He thought about the skeletal beings he'd seen on his last business trip. He'd been wearing a sleek suit and gold watch; they'd eyed him hungrily, but kindly, as if he were the one who deserved pity.

The pen hovered over the paper. His signature wouldn't come.

"Dear?" Her voice was inquisitive but firm.

He shook his head. "No." The check was torn into pieces, dropped unceremoniously into a waste bin. "Not anymore," he said. "Not me."

Both the woman and the clerk watched in disappointed confusion as he walked out. The bell chimed when the door closed behind him.