He didn't know why he still went to Zoya. Every time she opened her mouth and words fell out, he found himself feeling small in a way that lit a fuse. He never lashed out, though. Never at Zoya. He was pretty sure she had a collection of pistols strapped under her desk, and it was his own fault his finances were garbage.

As he walked down the steps of Zoya's home to the sidewalk, he skimmed through the paperwork and notes she had given him, critiques on his poor spending habits and various budget plans she recommended to help him save a few dollars here and there instead of living paycheck to paycheck. She had even given him some spreadsheets to fill out that were definitely going into his mail pile to be forgotten and thrown away in a heap. Besides, it wouldn't be that hard to save, right? Most of Zoya's advice had amounted to "spend less money on dances at Club Celeste."

He wasn't an idiot, not exactly. He understood and agreed that he would be better off if he spent less time at the club and saved more money, but the place was his escape. His time to turn his brain off and not think about the bills that were slowly eating him alive. His time to enjoy the company of attractive women in tight, skimpy clothing who would smile and bat their eyelashes at him like he was the only man in the room. And they certainly liked him a lot more than Zoya did...

Halfway down the block to his car, he glanced back at Zoya's Albany home. She was doing great for herself. It seemed like everyone was doing great for themselves, except for him. Moving to a new apartment nearly every year, barely scraping by because he had no fiscal skills, no sense of security save for the support of friends he was not keen on taking. He was no pest or leech. He was a man of simple pleasures, and those simple pleasures kept his spirits afloat.