Sweet Slime, one of Arlia Ravioli’s towns. I walk along one of Sweet Slime’s dirt roads. At the side of the road, an old lady in a colorful dress sits upon a wooden bench. She tosses scraps of bread out to a gathering of blue slimes. The slimes happily eat up the bread. I can just make out purrs coming from the slimes.

Are the slimes this world’s pigeons? I glance at the gathering of blue slimes as I walk. The old lady tosses more bread scraps to them. The slimes are still purring. Pigeons don’t purr. Are they this world’s cats? Do people sit on benches, feeding bread scraps to cats? Perhaps the slimes are both this world’s cats and pigeons.

Another slime catches my eye. This slime, though, is pink. A heavily made up woman in an expensive-looking pink dress, matching high-heels, and a diamond necklace walks the slime. She holds a pink leash in her hand. The slime wears a diamond-studded collar and has a big pink bow plastered on top of it. It does not tug at the leash, seemingly well behaved.

Are the slimes this world’s dogs too? I suspect stomping one may not go over all that well. I probably should keep that I have, in fact, stomped one to myself.

I stop, having come to a pet shop. Cute pink slimes, adorned with bows stare at me from the window. A price tag sits next to the slimes. I can read the tag just fine, the glyphs of its writing not that different from the ones back home. I have no reference for the price though. I have never encountered slimes for sell before. I glance to a couple bickering in front of the shop.

“But I want a pink one!” the woman says. She sounds mad. She has long blonde hair and is taller than I am. Her cheeks are puffed out.

“But Honey, they are so expensive.” The man, even taller than the woman, gestures at the price tag. The man is pretty muscular. Some women go for that.

The woman huffs and averts her gaze from her partner. “You’d buy me one if you loved me.”

“But Honey, I do love you, just not that mu—“ The man freezes. His face pales.

“Not that much?!” The woman goes red in the face. Her fists clench. “Bleep you!” She stomps off.

“H-Honey”—the man rushes after his partner—“I misspoke. Of course I love you. H-Honey, wait up!”

The proverbial lover’s quarrel. Have I just witnessed one? I turn my attention back to the pet shop. I lack money, but I suppose it can’t hurt to browse. I step into the shop. The door’s bell rings.

A poster greets me by the entrance. It reads, “The best way to tell her you love her is with a pink slime.” So that’s it. The shop is running an advertising campaign conflating love with a pink slime. Judging from that lover’s quarrel that occurred out front, that campaign may be causing some couples to experience some degree of strain.

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

I glance to the pen by the window—the pen with the pink slimes. The window positioning makes sense if the pink slimes are what the shop is pushing. My eyes go further into the shop to two additional pens. One of which has blue slimes. The other has red slimes. The blue slimes are the cheapest, the red more pricey. I glance back to the pink slimes. Why is a pink slime over ten times the price of a red slime? Are the pink really that much rarer, or is the shop just preying on couples? That quarrel out front suddenly makes a lot more sense.

“Welcome to Sweet Pets, the best pet shop in Sweet Slime.” A tall cream-skinned man with short blond hair walks up to me. His brown eyes meet my red eyes. “May I interest you in a pink slime. They are all the rage with ladies.” He smiles. “And look at that. It would go perfectly with that lovely hair of yours.” He smiles again.

Well, I do have pink hair. I glance to the pink-slime price tag, and then my eyes return to the shopkeeper. He wears a red jacket over a black shirt, brown pants, and brown shoes. There is a name tag, but said name tag is blank. Of course, that kind of defeats the whole purpose of a name tag.

Finally, I say, “Aren’t the pink slimes a little expensive?”

The man with the blank name tag smiles once again. “Yes,” he says, “they can be a little pricey, but they are well worth the price.” His eyes go over me, spending perhaps a tad too much time on my chest. Well, I do have a sizable bosom, but this guy is starting to feel skeevy.

His eyes go back to my eyes. He continues, “A lovely lady like yourself must have someone who’s head over heels for her. Certainly, your significant other would love to show his undying love for you by buying you one of our pink slimes. Nothing says love like one of our pink slimes.”

I can’t help but wonder if he gave this same sales pitch to that quarreling couple from before. Unfortunately for him, I’ve never been big on romance. “Not interested,” I say and turn to leave.

“Wait!” he calls out from behind me. I turn back to him. “You”—his eyes scan over me again, once more spending a tad too much time at my chest—“don’t have a boyfriend, do you?”

He hit the nail on the head with that remark. I do, in fact, not have a boyfriend, not that I particularly want one. I wonder how he figured that out though. Was it just a guess or perhaps my body language?

“You’re right. I don’t have a boyfriend. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m leaving.”

He grabs my left arm. Even though he’s only touching me through the sleeve of my shirt, that is enough to make my skin crawl. I really don’t much like this man.

“I feel sorry for you,” he says. “Come to the back room, and I’ll knock the price of a pink slime down for you.” He leans closer, and into my left ear, he whispers, “I’ll show you what it’s like to be with a real man.”

My breath catches. My right hand moves. I slap the bleep right across the face. “I’m”—I tremble—“leaving.” I storm out the door.

That … I tremble again. I now stand out front of that accursed pet shop. May that bleep burn in hell. My legs shake. I feel violated. The sound of something impacting the dirt road catches my attention. Thank deity. I could use a distraction.

A little girl’s red lollipop has fallen to the dirt road. She stands beside it yet pays the fallen item no heed. Instead, the girl’s face is tilted upward, her jaw slack. She extends her right arm and points at something.

I look up. My right hand instantly flies to the brown pouch at my right hip. A massive ball of flame barrels down toward us.