He Gave Me a Pull-Tab Ring and Bought His Ex a Yacht

"Counsel, please initiate the division of assets as soon as possible. All jointly owned assets must be immediately frozen by court order."   After ending the call, I returned the asset audit letter to the manila envelope exactly as I had found it.   I buried the envelope beneath a stack of old newspapers on the coffee table.   David pushed open the front door and walked in.   He did not even glance at Buddy's stiff body on the carpet.   He went straight to the wall and switched off the living room lights.   "Chloe, it's only five in the afternoon. The sun hasn't even fully set yet."   David reprimanded me in his usual superior tone.   "Leaving these lights on is a pointless waste of the planet's fossil fuels. It shows a complete lack of respect for nature."   The dead dog lay shrouded in darkness.   I stared at David.   He was wearing a faded secondhand linen shirt with a frayed collar.   It was the signature outfit he often wore while promoting his zero-carbon lifestyle. But a true one should be based on voluntariness and fairness, rather than restraining only one's partner.   And yet, the bill I had just hidden beneath the newspapers showed that he had bought Elena a private yacht.   The energy consumed by filling that yacht's fuel tank once would have been enough to power our drafty apartment for fifty years.   "Buddy is dead," I heard myself state this fact in a voice that was almost numb.   David walked over and contemptuously nudged Golden's already-cold leg with the toe of his worn leather shoe.   "Birth, aging, illness, and death are all part of the ecological cycle. Put it in a biodegradable bag and throw it into the compost bin in the backyard. It can become fertilizer for those tomato plants. That will be its final contribution to the food chain."   He had decided, without consulting me, what should be done with the guide dog who had been by my side for ten years.   Ten years ago, when I couldn't see, it was Buddy who put the leash into my hand and led me to learn to go out again. Later, when my eyesight recovered, it went from being my guide dog to being my family. Just an hour ago, Buddy collapsed to the ground, convulsing from heart failure. I called the emergency veterinary center immediately. After hearing the symptoms, the doctor told me to bring him in at once and made it clear that the surgical window was no more than two hours, and a deposit of fifty thousand dollars had to be paid in full before the surgery. I tried my bank card, my credit cards, and online loans, one after another. For the past five years, David had transferred all my income from my illustration work into our joint account, using "managing our finances together" as the reason. There were only a few hundred dollars left in my own account. To keep me from being brainwashed by consumerism, David had forced me to cancel two of my credit cards. The only one left had a limit of just two thousand dollars. I then called everyone in my contacts I could still reach. College classmates, galleries I had worked with, friends I hadn't been in touch with for a long time. I cast aside my dignity and said over and over that as long as Buddy could be saved, I would write IOUs, pay interest, and pledge all my income from illustrations for years to come. In the end, I only managed to raise seven thousand dollars. Others also scraped together whatever they could, sending a few hundred or a few thousand. I begged the hospital to start treatment first, promising to sell paintings and borrow from loan sharks at dawn. There were a few seconds of silence on the other end of the line, and then I was once again urged to raise the deposit as soon as possible. Sobbing, I knelt on the ground and clutched at David's pant leg. I begged him to use the five years of house-purchase savings in our joint account, to take out fifty thousand dollars to save Buddy. But he clutched his phone and passbook tightly, and rebuked me with a face full of self-righteousness. "Your attempt to forcefully prolong a life with money is a shameful capitalist practice." In the end, I could only watch helplessly as my dog died in the agony of suffocation. I lay over his gradually cooling body, crying until I vomited, my chest feeling as if it had been hollowed out. If my life could be exchanged for his, I would not hesitate for a second. I looked at his hypocritical face.   A violent pain tore through my chest, and the overpowering taste of blood filled my throat.   I did not argue.   The phone in David's pocket rang.   He pulled it out. Elena's name flashed across the screen.   He answered the call right in front of me.   Elena spoke petulantly over the phone, her voice grating in the silent living room.   "David, the interior of that yacht is hideous. That synthetic leather chafed my skin until it turned red."   David's stern, cruel expression instantly softened.   His eyes crinkled with amusement, and his voice became impossibly gentle.   "I'm sorry, Elena. That was the shipyard's standard interior. I'll have the designer replace it with premium Italian-style calfskin tomorrow. Would you prefer pearl white or champagne gold?"   Elena laughed with satisfaction.   "Pearl white. And make sure the workers treat it with the special conditioning oil flown in for me."   David immediately agreed, afraid of upsetting her.   Then they ended the call.   David took a crumpled piece of recycled paper from his pocket and carefully wiped the fingers that had touched his phone.   "Genuine leather products are so environmentally unfriendly," he complained to me with a frown.   "But Elena's skin is far too sensitive. She's never been able to tolerate rough materials, even as a child. I have no choice but to accommodate her."   It was a ten-million-dollar private yacht.   He had always claimed to oppose capitalist extravagance, yet he used the money we had saved to satisfy his ex-wife's ever-growing material desires.   I turned around, picked up my phone, and opened my email.   Westbridge Academy of Fine Arts had sent me an invitation to attend an advanced program the previous week.   I had been unwilling to leave David, so I had kept putting off my reply.   Now, I would delay no longer.   I tapped the button to accept the invitation.   The confirmation page showed that registration was scheduled for three days later.   In three days, I would fly to Bellaria.   David knew nothing about it. He took off his linen shirt and tossed it into a washbasin.   "Chloe, washing machines waste too much water. Wash this shirt by hand tomorrow morning, and remember to use that homemade soapberry detergent."   I looked at the murky water in the basin.   "No," I replied bluntly.   David turned to stare at me, unable to believe my answer.   "What did you say?"   "I said I'm not washing it. If you think it's dirty, wash it yourself—or ask Elena to wash it for you."   David's expression immediately darkened.   "How could Elena's hands possibly touch that crude soapberry detergent? Her hands are meant for playing the piano."   He shook his head in disappointment.   "Chloe, you're becoming increasingly obsessed with material comforts. You've lost your dedication to the planet, as well as your willingness to be understanding toward your partner."   I did not want to look at him anymore.   I went over to the carpet and carefully wrapped Buddy's body in a blanket.   Carrying my dead dog in my arms, I walked toward the front door.   David shouted after me.   "Where are you taking that body? You are not allowed to spend money on a burial plot! That would illegally take up land resources!"   I did not respond. I walked straight out into the freezing wind.   Early the next morning, I stepped out of the Pet Crematorium carrying Buddy's urn. The cremation technician handed me its old collar. The little bell rang softly, and my legs suddenly lost all strength. I squatted on the steps, clutching the urn tightly to my chest, until I could no longer make a sound from crying. Ten years had come down to just such a light box. A long time later, I wiped away my tears, held Buddy's urn close, and went to the post office. I mailed the confirmation canceling next week's wedding venue to Town Hall.   Then I went to the bank.   The teller pulled up the transaction records, and only then did I confirm that the so-called house-purchase fund had long since been transferred out by David in batches, leaving only a few dozen dollars in the account. In accordance with the account agreement, I closed the account as a joint account holder and requested that the bank seal all transaction records to hand over to a lawyer to trace where the money had gone.   As I stepped out of the bank, sunlight broke through the clouds.   I drew a deep breath of icy air.   I had finally escaped that terrible relationship, and my entire body felt weightless.