THE SAMPLE

The mall was half-empty, filled with the mechanical sigh of escalators and the hollow thunk of something discarded and forgotten. Marla moved past the kiosks, barely touching the world around her. Her eyes snagged on a tray of glossy, bite-sized cheesecakes—each square nestled in a paper cup like a jewel.

“Free sample?” the vendor asked, smiling too wide. His nametag read Dorian.

Marla hesitated. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and her stomach was a hollow drum. She reached for the raspberry one, the swirl like a fingerprint.

“Delicious, right?” Dorian said, watching her chew. “We’re testing a new flavor profile. You’ve got a refined palate—I can tell.”

Marla nodded, already turning away.

“Wait,” he said. “Actually, I need a favor.”

She paused. “Excuse me?”

“You took a sample. That means you’re part of the trial. I need feedback. Real feedback.”

Marla blinked. “It’s cheesecake. It’s sweet.”

“No, no. That’s not enough,” Dorian said.” I need specifics. Texture, balance, mouthfeel. Was the raspberry too assertive? Did the crust hold up?”

She stared at him. “I didn’t sign up for this.”

“You kind of did,” he said, gesturing to the tray. “It’s implied. Reciprocity.”

Marla folded her arms. “You offered it. I accepted. That’s not a contract.”

Dorian’s smile thinned. “You know, people like you ruin data sets. You take without giving. You consume without contributing.”

Marla’s teeth met with a quiet click, “People like me?”

“Transient. Detached. You float through spaces like this mall, never anchoring. Never investing.”

She stepped closer. “You don’t know me.”

“I know enough. You didn’t even ask what the sample was for. You just took.”

Marla’s voice dropped. “I lost my job last week. I come here to walk off the panic. That cheesecake was the first thing I’ve tasted in two days that didn’t feel like cardboard.”

Dorian’s face flickered. “I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, you did. You meant to shame me into giving you something you didn’t earn.”

He looked down at the tray. “I just need the data. My manager’s breathing down my neck. If I don’t get enough feedback, they’ll scrap the flavor.”

Marla exhaled. “Fine. The crust was soggy. The raspberry tasted like cough syrup. The texture was gluey. And the aftertaste lingered like regret.”

Dorian winced. “That’s… vivid.”

“You wanted specifics.”

He nodded slowly. “Thank you.”

Marla turned to leave.

“Wait,” he said again. “Would you like another?”

She looked at the tray. “No. One was enough.”

As she walked away, the mall felt different—less hollow, more honest. She hadn’t come for a confrontation. But sometimes, even a free sample costs something. And sometimes, paying in truth is the only currency left.

Douglas Yates: I'm a fiction writer and media analyst based in Indiana, currently earning my BFA in Creative Writing from Full Sail University, where I maintain a 3.24 GPA. I've written 12 screenplays and 15 books, with a growing portfolio of published fiction and media analysis. I’m drawn to narratives that value legacy and disciplined structure across formats.