"I'm giving you more than a fair price. They're antiques for Chrissake."

Meta nudged the grass with the toe of her boot and clutched the upholstery of one of the pillows. "I'm not saying they're not...old. I mean, they're certainly nice pillows, but—"

The woman folded her arms over her chest as the wind separated tufts of gray hair from her messy bun. "No, you're just not willing to pay a decent price for them. Just like your generation. Always wanting something for nothing. If I said you could have them for a penny, you'd purse your lips and say, 'Well, I'm doing a bit of a favor taking them off your hands. How about you give me the pillows and twenty bucks?'"

"That's just not true."

"I think it is, and you know what? I'm not sure these beautiful pillows need a home with someone like you."

The woman snatched the pillows away. A piece of fringe caught on her long, dark nail and tugged a half inch out of the fabric. Meta winced.

"Fine, fine." She pulled a wad of money, tied with a rubber band, from her jacket pocket and handed over the woman's price—all in ones. Meta hauled the pillows into her arms and left the woman counting her spoils, drool forming in the corners of her mouth like condensation on a window pane.