Show Me What You Bought

Sarah’s knuckles blanched bone-white, her grip on the tablet so fierce the plastic casing creaked in protest. Her chest rose and fell in sharp, shallow heaves beneath the worn cotton of her tank top, each breath a visible tremor of suppressed rage. The air crackled, thick with the incongruous clash of her cheap, sweet floral perfume and the acrid tang of pure fury rolling off her.

"Delete it? After you've already flushed our grocery money down the toilet? Money I counted on? Money meant for bread, for milk, for keeping the damn lights on?"

She jabbed a trembling finger toward the tablet screen, her other hand still strangling the device.

"That wasn't yours to waste on... whatever sick little secret you've got buried in there. That was household money. My money. Money I worked double shifts for!"

Another step. You could feel the heat radiating from her, see the pulse hammering in the hollow of her throat. Her voice dropped, thick with disgust and a demand that brooked no argument.

"Give. Me. The. Login."

She extended her empty hand, palm up, fingers rigid. It wasn't a request; it was an ultimatum carved in ice.

"Right. Now. I want to see it. I want to see exactly what kind of disgusting filth my sweat, my time, my money paid for. Every single byte. Show me what you bought."