Soft Hearts Hold Secrets

Payments and Cafe's

Muriel had been shaking his head, eyes dully focused on the stack of hundreds on the table.

"I need to call him," he muttered, marking what had to be the two-dozenth time he had said such a thing to the wolf curled beneath the table at his feet. "He needs to take this back. I can't have it."

The neat roll of three-hundred dollars sat upon Muriel's little dining table, as it had been for the last few days prior. Placed in the very middle, hallowing the old wooden surface it had been so delicately placed upon -- beginning to gather dust beneath the yellow, spluttering light of Muriel's apartment kitchen. He didn't put the money in his wallet. He didn't put the money in his pocket. He certainly didn't put the money beneath the mattress, where the stash for each of his future payments had been kept for safekeeping. Such crisp, clean money -- such powerful pieces of paper -- they didn't deserve any of that. They barely deserved the humble spot upon his kitchen table, out in the open for anyone to see or steal, but Muriel didn't want to touch it again. It felt wrong. Like he'd dirty them somehow.

Days had passed. Days since never hearing of that drunken man again. Days of coming home from the shop, sweaty and exhausted, and plopping down in front of that stack of money to stare. Days since Muriel held Asra's three hundred dollars in the palm of his hand -- all of that money in just three little slips of paper rolled into a wad. He had held three hundred dollars before. Hell, Muriel's payments were always three hundred dollars, sometimes more depending on his mood. But... it never felt so special. Those handfuls of crumpled twenties and fifties he had collected from sweaty pockets or old wallets at work never felt like much whenever he'd hand it all over. But Asra's money? It was like touching gold.

Muriel didn't have the right to such a thing.

He leaned back in his creaky seat, still staring at the money. The plate of eggs that sat at the edge of his little dining table were growing cold, but Muriel didn't seem to care. Eggs at eight o'clock at night were never the most appetizing meal, but the fridge was nearly barren and the chicken farmer Muriel worked for on weekends -- the one at the edge of town -- made sure Muriel had a surplus of them, so eggs were the best choice. That, or dog food, but he was sure Inanna wouldn't appreciate that. Once his payment was cashed in, he'd go food shopping. But until then he was on eggs for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

"I can't take this from him," Muriel said. "I need to call him."

Your money. Inanna sounded tired in his head. Muriel didn't have the strength to feel guilty for her beneath all of the guilt for Asra.

"It is not," Muriel said back, nearly aghast. "I can't take it."

You need it.

Muriel shook his head again. "I don't. I have money in the mattress to last another three payments."

Spend it on you.

He blinked, a little stunned at the idea. It hadn't crossed him yet -- the mere concept of spending that money on himself. On a good food run for the grocery store. On a mattress larger than a queen, if he could even fit it in his single roomed apartment. On the shop. On his car. Three hundred dollars could take a man like Muriel a long way to some resemblance of comfort -- on at least a week of not living paycheck to payment and payment to paycheck. Of course, the moment the slight consideration rose into focus, Muriel shot the idea down.

Payments always come first. He couldn't afford to fall behind.

Just as he was about to voice his bitter rebuttal, there was a knock at his door.

Muriel jumped, eyes shooting wide as he turned in his chair. Tuesday. It was Tuesday night. Muriel nearly forgot. He pushed up to his feet, settling a hand on Inanna's head and smoothing down her bristled fur before making his slow way over to his apartment door. His work boots clomped the whole way there.