“It’s unoriginal, sure, but that’s literally the colour of the cow,” says Renée. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

Bridget rolls her eyes and tugs on her own cow’s leash. Her cow is named Milky White. She’s named that because the family that sold the cow named her, and Bridget isn’t planning on having her around long enough to bother with a name change. Renée’s cow is also named Milky White even though she used to be named Jersey, which pisses Bridget off as Renée’s cow isn’t even entirely white, has black spots on the tips of her ears which Renee has hidden with paint.

“I just think it’s ridiculous,” says Bridget, stopping at the street corner to press the walk button, “for two women to be walking around with cows that have the same name.”

“It’s not like they have nametags. No one knows.”

“What was wrong with Jersey?”

“I’m not into sports.”

“You’re a fucking idiot.”

The light turns and Renée and Bridget cross, dragging the Milky Whites behind them. On the opposite street corner, an old man in a stained coat huddles on a bookstore stoop. The women stop in front of him. “Anything?” Bridget asks.

The old man looks up, pinto-coloured teeth sprouting from his weather-worn lips, and proffers a handful of jellybeans from inside his jacket, mostly reds. “Beans for a cow?” 

Bridget’s lip curls. “What is this, fucking amateur hour? Give me a break with that weak shit.” She tugs Milky White away.

Renée lingers. “Green, garbanzo, snow,” she tells the man, “will give you what you’re owed. Jelly beans are artificial, dude.”

The old man blinks.” Do you have any?” he asks. “Beans for beans?”

Renée shakes her head. “If I had beans, we’d both be in a different situation right now.” She hurries after Bridget, catching up with her outside the Stroke of Midnight Café where the women have made lunch reservations. 

The two tie their cows to the rack outside beside several others, all of which have snow-white flanks. Chalkboards in front of each stall broadcast both cow and owner’s name. Bridget wrinkles her nose to see three other bovines are named Milky White. A fourth is named Buttercup. “What did I tell you?” she says. “In a buyer’s market, you have to stand out.”

“You could always rename yours.”

Bridget glares at her friend, grabs the chalk, and writes LACTOSE-FREE COTTAGE CHEESE in blocky white letters on her cow’s name plate. “There,” she says. “Bitch.”

The women are seated on the café’s patio in sight of the cows. “Do they not have breakfast nachos anymore?” Renée asks, reading her menu.

“They do,” Bridget says with an eye-roll. “They’re just called ‘brunch chips’ now.”

“Ew. That sounds unhealthy.”

“They’ve always been carb-y, idiot. I’m getting a muesli bowl.”

The waiter appears, a young man with sad, brown eyes. “I’ll have the muesli bowl too,” Renée informs him. 

Bridget purses her lips. As soon as the waiter leaves, she opens her mouth to admonish her friend, reconsiders, and instead says, “Did you hear about Melissa Gamble?”

Renée sips a grapefruit mimosa. “From high school? No, what happened to her?”

“She was jogging in Kingston Park, apparently, and paused to check her heart-rate next to the creek. Next thing she knows, a little voice is calling to her from the bank.”

Renée chokes on her drink. “Shut the hell up.”

“Yep. A beached golden fish.”

“Ugh, I hate her! Stupid bitch. What did she wish for?”

Bridget grins like a barracuda. “Paid off her student loans. Fucking moron. If I were her, I’d have asked for a few inches off of my piggy waist.”

“Bridget! That’s wicked! But you’re right. I hope she gains ten pounds.” 

“I hope she breaks an ankle.”

“Catches chlamydia.”

Bridget blows a raspberry. “Who would give it to her?” 

The two friends laugh. The sun beats down, but their table’s umbrella keeps them cool. 

Over Renée’s shoulder, Bridget spies an old man examining the bank of cows in front of the café: long white hair, wrinkled face, tattered shawl. 

Renée blissfully stirs her ice cubes. “Why does nothing like that ever happen to us?”

“Catching chlamydia?”

“No, the whole magic fortune thing. We’ve never found a golden fish, never bought an antique with a genie inside, never accidentally helped a fairy.”

“Unless you count your college boyfriend.”

“Bridget! Everyone but us gets lucky, even with the cow business. I mean, both Kathy Whitmore and Tanya Blackstock found a weird old man to trade them beans, and now Kathy’s in a studio apartment and Tanya fixed her old nose. They barely deserve it!”

Bridget keeps one eye on the old man as he examines Dairy-Free Cottage Cheese. “Obviously, you’re right, Ren. But remember: we’re better than luck. Happiness is always more fulfilling when you’ve worked for it. Kathy only shopped her cow around for a week. Tanya’s buyer was literally her grandfather-in-law.”

Renée nods. “And Melissa Gamble’s still fat.”

“Right. None of them earned a goddamn thing.”

The old man shambles onto the café patio. “Is there a Renée Ryan here selling a Milky White?”

Before Renée can extract the straw from her lips, Bridget leaps to her feet, manicured nails scraping the umbrella over her head. “Me! I’m selling a Milky White!”

“Care to trade for some beans?”

Renée chokes and splutters. “I’m actually…”

“Yes! God yes!” As the old man fishes in his pocket, Bridget bends down to her friend. “Shut the fuck up, asshole. You don’t need this. You’re grinding, remember?” 

“Yeah, but I’m selling Milky White!”

“No, you’re selling Jersey. And you don’t need a break as much as I do.”

Renée opens and closes her mouth like a trapped minnow. 

Bridget leads the man over to Renée’s cow, Renée’s Milky White, and triumphantly proffers her hand for beans. The old man grins and plunks three pink jelly beans into her outstretched palm.