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twenty-five-dollar floral bunch in deep pinks and purples. The five-dollar bunches were decent. The ten-dollar ones nice. And the twenty-five-dollar bouquets were just show-offy and obscene. Like being a billionaire's wife?
    I paid with the reserve cash I had in my wallet, leaving just enough for my mac and cheese. In my real life, I had to skimp. These things were luxuries. Did I want to continue to live like this? Or did I want the high life?
    I felt like I was living that old story I'd had to read in school. Lady? Or the tiger? Which would I choose? And why? Write a thousand-word essay outlining your reasons for deciding to choose the billionaire. Where had that come from? Was I choosing the billionaire? And was he the equivalent of the lady or the tiger?
    As I waited in line at Beecher's, being jostled and bumped by the crowds, I regretted buying flowers first. I finally got my mac and cheese and balanced it and my flowers as I made my way downstairs. The Market was always crowded. There were usually no places to sit and eat. I knew of a spot in the basement that hardly anyone bothered to find. There were generally plenty of tables there.
    Sure enough, I was right. I found a table for two, set my flowers in the seat opposite me as if they were my date, and took a bite of heavenly mac and cheese. So much better than instant mac. Why did I ever bother with the pale imitation?
    My phone buzzed in my purse. I ignored it. Whoever was calling could wait. A woman walked by and gawked at me as if she was trying to place me. I didn't know her, so I shrugged it off. She was probably just admiring my flowers. Then two biker dudes in full leathers and tats strolled by. It would have been a nice boost to my self-esteem to think they were checking me out. But they wore the same Hey, don't I know her? expression as the woman had. Weird.
    I was sitting in a low-traffic part of the Market, but the curious stares started coming faster. As the stares turned to whispers and pointing, I grew more and more uncomfortable. I wolfed downed the rest of my lunch and headed out onto the street to get my cheesecake on a stick from a walk-up window. Cheese seemed to be the food theme of my day.
    As I waited in line, my phone buzzed again. And again. The more I ignored it, the crazier it went. It buzzed constantly, like an electric massager was going wild for my lipstick.
    My turn finally came up. I ordered a piece of Irish cream cheesecake dipped in chocolate on a stick. I was out of cash, so I crossed my fingers and handed over my credit card to the girl behind the counter.
    In the back of the shop, a TV mounted on the wall played the local noon news. The girl looked at me funny. Then glanced at my credit card and read my name before she ran it. Crap! I was in trouble now. She was going to refuse my card and I was down to my last dollar twenty in cash. It sucked being poor.
    The newly insidious little thought came: You don't have to ever be poor again.
    My phone continued buzzing. Other people were giving me strange looks. They were probably thinking, Why doesn't she answer her stupid phone!
    Did ignoring my phone make me a crazy person? From the looks I was getting, you would think so.
    The girl handed me my credit card along with my cheesecake in a white paper bag. "Kayla Lucas?" She squinted at me.
    I nodded, worried that I was on their banned credit card list and I'd have to bum some change off the strangers in line around me. Move over, crazy Seattle panhandlers. Here I came.
    "I thought I recognized you! You've been on the noon news." She pointed to the screen behind her, which was currently showing the weather and, therefore, not much help in making her point. It was supposed to stay sunny for the next few days, though. So, good news there. June is not the sunniest month in Seattle.
    "The noon news? What?" My mouth went dry. "Why?"
    My credit wasn't that bad. I freaked. What if the girl supposedly pretending to be me had gotten herself arrested