by Sergey Bolmat

She was shopping online and saw that independence was on sale. It was so cheap she couldn’t believe her eyes. Maybe it was made in China, she thought, and then she thought that she had to check the seller’s location. And the delivery price, of course. The item could be cheap, but the delivery price could be insane. She clicked the seller’s link, but the seller was listed as local, the address listed in the town barely three hours comfortable driving from her. And the delivery was free. She thought she read the price wrong. How it could be so cheap? She read the double figures again. No, it was all right, all black, nice, and clear, big confident digits. She saw another number beneath, smaller, pale, crossed through, indicating that it was indeed the Christmas sale. The picture was decorated with red Santa hats, golden bells, snowflakes, and fir branches. She shook her head reluctantly. No doubt, she thought—this independence was totally affordable.

But there had to be a catch. What, she thought, could be wrong with this item? She looked at the pictures, zoomed in. No, the images were all superb—clear, sharp, colorful. They made her crave this independence, so tantalizing they all were. She couldn’t stop looking at them. She needed her own independence, she understood, right now, like nothing else in the world. She couldn’t live without it.

But what was the catch? The price certainly couldn’t be right. She frowned. It was like snatching a designer outfit for pennies. It was suspicious. There had to be a defect; there had to be something. Recently, she had bought a cheap but very elegant plum cardy on sale and later found out that it had a knot on the back, a snag small but quite visible. When she tried to do something about it, the whole area of the knitting the size of her palm turned into a gaping hole, expanding. She couldn’t even return the cardigan. No, she had to be careful, she said to herself. Maybe she had to read the list of ingredients she found on the back of the package in the vanishingly tiny, off-white on white, almost invisible print.

And here she saw why this independence was so affordable. It was 20% hate, 15% spite, 30% frustration, 10% resentment, and 25% ready-made pedestrian political views, with added entitlement and prejudice. Oh, and it was secondhand, listed as “New other (see details).” She didn’t see it before because she was too excited to read beyond the first word. She looked at the details and saw that the description was intentionally unclear in a very subtle and devious way. Someone took time to write this paragraph, she thought. And they didn’t accept returns. And the delivery was in three weeks. This is a drop-shipping scam, she thought, it’s no good.

No, she thought, this is not for me. I don’t need this. This is rubbish. I need something much, much better. The feeling that she really needed her own independence and needed it very badly—without delay, whatever the price could be—became almost unbearable, like an itch. She couldn’t live without independence, she understood, not a minute longer. Never before had she ever seriously thought about it, but now she understood how miserable her life was without it. She had to find it right now—and not just some cheap substitute but the real deal, something truly good, something durable, something from the upper end of the range.

The search took her about an hour, but eventually she found what she was looking for. This independence was top rate. It was artisanal, it was traditional, sourced from local materials, all hand-made in a small family establishment, which on photographs looked like a shop straight out of a Victorian novel adapted for screen in a disarmingly lighthearted and modernizing way, not really true to the grim original, the front sign above the door all flaking, peeling light-blue paint and golden Olde English letters: a 120-year-old company housed in a 150-year-old building, according to the “About Us” tab. They kept the secret of this independence in their family for generations. It was organic; it boasted a protected geographic status. It was all dignity, freedom, joy, wisdom, and compassion. It was perfect. Tons of customers recommended it. Almost all reviews gave it five stars.

But she couldn’t find the price. This was a very bad sign. She had to click on many links. She had to scroll up and down. She had to look at the site map. Finally, she found it, a catalog in PDF. It took her an eternity to download and open the document. When she finally found the number, she couldn’t believe her eyes. This couldn’t be true, she thought. These people were robbers; they were bandits, gangsters, extortionists; they were all genuine fascists, those small family-business arts-and-crafts bloody types with their obnoxious, quaint, fairy-tale looks, probably all AI generated. They make that independence in Vietnam in sweatshops, she said to herself in an almost audible mumble, and organize a front here to sell it for that exorbitant price, not even a real front, just some pictures and a virtual address. Artisanal my arse, she thought, it’s all the same, cheap shit only packed in a nice way. All lies, she thought, and no one can catch them because they bribe everyone. She touched her teacup and found it cold. Her wine was finished. She licked her lips and took a bite from the cupcake. The cupcake tasted stale all of a sudden. She chewed for a while and took a sip of her cold tea. She looked at the price again.

There was no way in the whole wide world she could afford this, she thought, not now, not ever. It was prohibitively expensive. The inflation, she thought, this bloody economy, these new grocery and energy prices, the cost-of-living crisis. This here was her salary for about a year, maybe even more. She certainly didn’t expect to see a number that big. Stupefied, she kept looking at it.

Oh, to hell with that, she thought and closed her laptop. Next time. Don’t need it. Better off without it. Independence is overrated, she thought. Who can afford that, what kind of people? All those loudmouths, she thought, who shout about it at every corner—do they really have it themselves? Don’t think so. Also those predators, she thought, with those price tags, all those hypocrites, those salespeople promoting stuff. Maybe, she thought, she could save a bit, though. She could expect a juicy bonus this year, she thought. But then again, she needed so many things. She needed a new streaming subscription. Her telly was old. She needed new outfits, badly. She needed healthy, nutritious food and decent supplements. No more of that ultra-processed poisonous garbage. Occasionally, her washing machine didn’t drain properly and the water was smelly. She needed a new set of tires for her car, and, quite honestly, she needed a new car. She had to upgrade her gym plan.

I better go to bed, she thought. What was that dream I saw last night? I was still a student and was taking part in a squash tournament, and I was tired, sweaty, and I was happy because I was winning, I had momentum, luck was on my side. Maybe I had to become a squash pro, she thought, when I had a chance all those years ago. I was good, she thought. Maybe, she thought, I could see this dream again tonight.