Equivalootitus

Yellowed paper scuttled erratically across the crowded park of vagabonds, and the lithe blond-haired woman followed. Unlike the previous year's success, Fashion Week in Central Park highlighted trendy stained clothes with a sundry of iridescent patches accessorized with vicarious animalistic body odors. The crumbled newspaper brushed into a picnic table displaying canned vegetables, sardines, a sprouted potato, and a tin of Beanee Weenees.

"How much for the Beanee Weenees and the potato?" she asked its guardian, who wore an oversized black cabbie hat.

"Ten sheets," the young but prematurely aged man said.

"Six," she replied.

"Eight is the minimum needed," he said.

The former fashion model opened her ripped St. John Collection double-faced wool coat and checked the inside pocket.

"Eight it is," she surrendered, knowing the last of her currency would be spent. Times were harsh, but she would have to rely on her petite hands going forward. She paid his charge.

"Premium currency, Ma'am. Charmin?" leering at the cracked remnants of her once-manicured red fingernails.

"It's my last," she said.

Their eyes met in an unspoken understanding.

Securing her canned treasure and the potato, she picked up the tainted newspaper, flicked a brown glob off of it, and stuffed it in her pocket.

***