Enjoying “pretty privilege.”

You thank Margot again, tuck the book into your handbag, and step back onto Main Street. The morning has warmed slightly, the cloud cover thinning to let patches of sunlight dapple the sidewalk. Your calves are screaming—a deep, persistent ache from the fifty-minute heel march—and you need to sit down before you do something undignified like limping.

There's a small bistro three doors down from Petal & Thread: THE GILDED FORK, according to the hand-lettered sign above a green awning. Outdoor tables with wrought-iron chairs, a chalkboard menu propped on the sidewalk. Perfect.

You approach and a young man in a canvas apron materializes at the host stand with a speed that seems almost gravitational. He's maybe twenty-five, sandy-haired, with the kind of easy smile that suggests he practices it in the mirror.

"Hey there! Table for one? I've got a lovely spot by the window, or if you'd prefer the patio—"

"Patio, please."

He pulls out a chair for you. Actually physically pulls it out and gestures you into it. You lower yourself onto the cushion, the pencil skirt riding slightly as you sit, and he tucks the chair in behind you with a flourish.

"Can I get you started with some water? Sparkling or still?"

"Still, please. And maybe the soup of the day?"

"Absolutely. It's a roasted butternut squash with sage. You'll love it." He grins and disappears inside.

He pulled out my chair. He pulled out my chair and I didn't even have to ask.

You settle into the seat, crossing your ankles beneath the table—the way you've seen women do a thousand times, one heel hooked behind the other—and feel the garter straps shift against your thighs. The book is heavy in your handbag. The sun is warm on your bare arms above the blouse's short sleeves.

The waiter returns with water, a bread basket, and a smile that lingers a beat longer than professional necessity requires. "I'm Fletcher, by the way. Let me know if you need anything. Anything at all."

He says it to your chest. Then catches himself and meets your eyes with a sheepish grin.

That was... that was flirting. He was flirting with me.

The soup arrives in under ten minutes—a generous bowl with a drizzle of crème fraîche and toasted pumpkin seeds. You eat slowly, the way the corset demands, and notice that Fletcher checks on you twice more than any other table. The woman two seats over with a toddler has been waiting fifteen minutes for her sandwich.

When you ask for the check, Fletcher waves a hand. "Soup's on the house today—we made too much batch and I'd hate to waste it. Just come back and tell your friends about us, yeah?"

He comped my meal. A twelve-dollar soup. Because I'm pretty.

You leave a five from your wallet anyway—your limited cash supply twinging—and the walk back to Main Street's center feels different. Lighter. Not just because your stomach is full. A man holding a ladder for a painter tips his hard hat as you pass. A woman at the bus stop compliments your shoes. A delivery driver slows his truck to let you cross at an unmarked intersection, giving a little wave.

This is what it's like. This is what they get. The smiles, the doors, the free soup. The way the world softens around you.

You find a bench near the town's small park, lower yourself onto it with a grateful sigh, and slip off one pump to massage your aching arch. The relief is immediate and almost obscene. You wiggle your toes—stockinged, the sheer black fabric catching the light—and lean back against the bench's iron frame.

Your phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number: Hi Riley! This is Darcy from Grounded Coffee. Just following up on my email—are you still interested in chatting today? No pressure!

You stare at the message, then at the book in your bag, then at the town stretching around you—this place that is slowly, imperceptibly, becoming yours.