"Can I help you?" the butcher asked. He wore a clean white apron and had the hands of a man who understood the weight of his craft. "I’d like a filet mignon
The air in Arthur’s small apartment was thick with the scent of cheap instant coffee and the hum of a refrigerator that had seen better decades. He sat at a scarred wooden table, staring at a single, crisp hundred-dollar bill. It was the first time in three years he’d had a surplus, a small "thank you" bonus from a freelance accounting gig that had actually paid on time. buy filet mignon
He sat at his scarred table, the single plate in front of him. There were no sides, no distractions—just the steak. When he pressed his knife against the crust, it gave way with a delicate crunch, revealing a center that was a uniform, glowing pink. "Can I help you