"Love is a powerful emotion. Spend it wisely." I gently nudge the coin like a hushed whisper against the weathered wooden table.

The soon-to-be-married couple casts an exploratory glance over the currency, inspecting each curve and line of my craftsmanship. Their eyes burn with a blend of timid excitement and alluring anticipation.

In the world today, where all basic needs are met, where material possessions are abundant, where sadness has been eliminated entirely, most people are happy to emulate this pair's path. Find a decent partner, settle down, invest in enough coin to find comfort living in the company of someone commendable. 

As for me? I traffic not in the tangible but in something far more magnificent. I deal in human emotions, in the ephemeral and elusive. In the abstract and arcane. In the profound and primal. Desire? That’s my stock-in-trade.

"I assure you that my coins are all carved from the purest of emotions. Aged to perfection. Uniquely crafted to your very personalities." My words are soft cashmere in the biting cold.  The exquisite stonework that surrounds us in this outdoor enclosure always strikes me with a kind of chilling beauty. Museums, or maybe they were called mausoleums by the ancients, are such lovely structures to hold ceremonies in, especially when retrofitted with rosy upholstery and delicate chairs. This couple's nuptials promise to be nothing short of spectacular. 

Their eyes soften, tension dissolving from pinched brows. Finally, the groom's fingers ghost over the delicate veil of white lace adorning the bride's hand. She lifts her promised hand towards him, their gazes locked in silent agreement. Then, in unison, they inhale a gust of anticipation, their fingers fastening around the cold metal of the coin. Each contour, each imperfection burns against their heated skin. 

I witness the coin's metamorphosis imprinting upon them. An endless ocean of emotion must be surging within them right now. A beautiful view that commands my captive eyes.

Thumbs caress knuckles in a reassuring squeeze. Without uttering a single word, their grins speak volumes, as if whispering secrets meant only for them. And then they kiss like a crescendo manifesting itself in the meeting of lips, an exploration of love wrapped in longing and desperation.

This. This is why I do my job. Why I traverse the mundane nine-to-five grind as a Desire Broker. It's more than a job for me, it's my calling.

When the couple finally leans back, satisfied yet contentedly awestruck at what they just experienced together, the groom finally speaks. "Wow. I mean WOW!"

"We heard you were one of the best Desire Brokers out there but we didn't know you'd be this good. You really do understand people, don't you?" The bride’s words bubble over one another like champagne. The groom watches, hooked by the symphony of her giggles.

They laugh together. Innocent. Unadulterated. Amusement that seems to echo a child taking their very first bite of sun-kissed peach.

They don't quite understand the magnitude of what they just experienced. But that's okay. They will. In time. As they grow old together, and their desire deepens, they'll remember this moment. They'll remember the way the coin felt in their hands for the first time, the way it ignited a dormant curiosity inside of them they hadn't realized was there, like striking flint against steel in a dark chamber.

Confidence rolls off me in waves as I extend my hand to them, a small piece of cardstock pinched neatly between my fingers in calculated elegance. "I don't just coin for weddings. I do the funnest of funerals too, everyone laughing and reveling in the grand aura of a fulfilled life. If you know of anyone that ever is in need of it, my wealth of desire is delightfully at your disposal."

I watch their eyes descend onto the business card, onto the lifeline that carries my name.

"How much do we owe you, again? Was it thirty-six memories a month, but with thirty percent commission when we put them on consignment?" the groom asks. Worry draws tight lines around his eyes as he readies his pocket memory bank, sleek and modern in design, the small screen flickering into vitality.

"Consider it a gift to celebrate your union. I have no doubt that you will make your own contribution to the wealth of desire in the world," I declare it from the depths of my soul, I swear it on every beat of my heart. Desire. Desire. Desire. That's what drives us all forward.

Their eyes stretch wide in the naked face of surprise, pushing a silence so thick it swallows all words.

It's as if all the tension in their muscles melts away, washing over them like a soothing wave of ocean tide after an exhausting swim.

"Thank you," the bride's voice finally wobbles out, like an autumn leaf quivering against an unexpected gust.

"But I'd love to get a copy of your wedding dance today. For research purposes, of course." My words cut through the air, sharp and clean.

"Yes. Fantastic. Anything you want." The couple slowly rises from their chairs, fingers still entwined around the coin. I'm halfway out the door when I hear it.

"Just one more thing," the bride calls out, her voice sharp enough to splinter glass into symphonies. You can almost touch the rippling desperation in each note. The sound is a raw serenade.

More. They always want more from me. I am the Desire Broker after all. And I am damn good at it.

"What else can I make for you two today?" A steadfast smile stays on my face. "Perhaps something for the honeymoon?"

I hover by the door, the cold metal seeping through my skin. My fingers clasp around the handle of my Desire Broker suitcase, my mind already assembling the proper coinage for my next impending engagement. I silently pray to the divine plumbers of time and appointments to unclog my tardy drain. This couple clearly needs more of my coin, bless them.

The bride's eyes dance a frantic ballet from side to side, echoing an unspoken urgency as she speaks in a low whisper. "I know it's not my place to ask. But do you think you could help my Uncle Ezra? He lives on the corner of Fifth."

I know who she's talking about. Old mad Ezra. Lives in a palace but lets no one inside of it. I've often heard him muttering and screaming to himself when my job has drawn me toward his unsettling vicinity.

"He's not even coming to the rest of the ceremony tonight," the bride says in urgency. "Please. With the right coin, I just know you could coax him out of his shell."

I hate to admit it, but my coins, no matter how carefully crafted, cannot mend some souls. A hermit crab will only leave his shell for the comfort to hide in another. I search for soft words. "I'm sorry to hear that. But unfortunately, I'm very busy at the moment." 

"He's got a lot of vintage coin. I'm sure he'd be happy to let you see," the bride says with an intensity that catches my attention like a clanging bell in a quiet room.

"Old coin you say? I might be able to pencil him in today," I say, my words captive with curiosity. "For research purposes, of course."

"Thank you," she says, right before being whisked away by the photographer.

As I slip out, I cast a glance back over my shoulder, a secret window peeking into their world without me. I watch as the couple poses, lost in a glittery haze of lens flare. Birthed by the cunning hands of craft, my coin is now the couple's cherished keepsake, held out proudly, photographed from every angle. A tide of satisfaction surges within me.

But I also can't help feel a bigger wave crash against my own heart. Desire, an intoxicating muse I've mastered in my trade, remains an elusive, unfathomable treasure I've failed to possess perfectly for myself. That's the bitter-sweet irony of being a dealer of Desire. Contentment always eludes us. 

I push the thought aside, reminding myself that I am a Desire Broker, not a hopeless romantic. I have a job to do. And this Ezra sounds like he desperately needs me. I'll simply settle for being satisfied today. It will have to be enough.

When my schedule finally frees, I make my way toward Fifth Street, laughing to myself, wondering if I should bring my binder of coins or merely a muzzle. 

"My niece said you'd be coming." I'm startled to see Ezra waiting for me at the doorway to his beautiful abode, poised with patience. He stands, seasoned by years, with silver strands and a billowing beard of white. 

"I'm happy to help," I say brightly. He doesn't seem to be marinating in madness. Maybe a little hollowed by the desolate winter of elderly days, but nothing a little coin can't fix. I'm glad I came when I did.

"Please come in." As Ezra tours me around his enormous house, I make a note of how his right hand fidgets. In his calloused palm, he continuously caresses a dry paintbrush, the bristles barren with no touch of color. 

My gaze drifts around the grandness of each room, my eyes feasting on the opulent wallpaper and the symphony of decorations. I see paintings, paintings blanketing the walls. So many diverse styles, each claiming its space, leaving no inch untouched.

"Did you make all these?" I ask in awe, my voice swirling like watercolors on a wet page.

He laughs with a type of yearning that throbs beneath the surface. "Humans used to call them galleries." Ezra's words practically float, every syllable elevated by some sort of strange mysticism. 

"Like a document archive?" I ask, thinking about the shelves of old data Desire Brokers have access to downtown. “You know, like a physical memory bank?”

"This is a little more personal," Ezra explains. "Something to always admire. It's an assemblage, an assemblage of works. Some from friends. Others from friends I've merely revered, now long gone, gone and dead." 

My eyebrows shoot up, struggling to contain the floodwaters of surprise from widening my eyes. It's a little creepy he hoards all these items that once belonged to the deceased, but desire's often a convoluted collection. I've learned that firsthand.

"And this big blank spot here?" I ask, curious, pointing to a solitary patch on the otherwise cluttered wall.

"Waiting to place my masterpiece, my magnum opus, there, right there." He sweeps his hand toward a pristine canvas hidden away in the corner.

I finally understand, the puzzle pieces clicking into place. "You'd like me to coin you up some Inspiration, wouldn't you? Paired with Flow and Motivation, the tokens could do wonders for you to complete your work. You are an artist, right?"

"I've heard you're an artist as well?" A sensation seems to electrify Ezra's eyes. 

"I wouldn't call it that," I counter, an unexpectedly soft heat seeping through me.

"Might I take a look, a closer look at your collection?" His query almost bounces off the walls, reverberating with intensity.

He's one of those meticulous buyers. I find with these types, a glimmer of clarity often paves the path to commitment.

"I brought my extensive portfolio." I gently extricate my binders from the confines of my bag.

Ezra says very little as I proudly show my crafted coins. He lets loose a staccato of coughs, each one echoing something hauntingly deep, likely unvoiced disapproval. A contemplative stillness takes him hostage every few heartbeats. As we look through token after token, he inspects them like a jeweler judging gemstones, ready to buy based on sheer beauty.

"Would you like to try any on?" I ask, trying to find meaning in his baffling behavior. "It's really best to sample the coin."

"It's some of the most honest coin I've seen." He means them, his words. Each syllable holds sincere weight as if birthed from the sanctuary of his very soul.

My brows knit together in confusion. "But how could you even tell?" 

"You have to read a book first to understand its stories," he says back, as if adrift in his own sea of thoughts.

"Books? You mean the document archive again?" I ask, confused. This man gets stranger by the second. 

He slumps down, hands instinctively traveling to soothe away weariness etched deep into his neck muscles, breaths strained and shallow. Oh no. I hope I haven't offended him. 

"Could you be a dear and reach up to the counter and hand me that bottle?" His voice dwindles to a whisper.

"Of course." As I hand him the small bottle, understanding dawns on me. The elixir it houses is no common tonic. Medicine of such nature is treasured and rare. "Um. Did you happen to fancy any of my coin for purchase?"

"I'm afraid I have a bit of a challenge, a challenge for you." His words tumble out, a raw edge to the sound that seems to echo his inner turmoil. "If you're up for it."

Straightening my spine, I feel a jolt of surprise prickling down my back. I haven't heard a request like that in years. "I'm all ears," I respond immediately. 

Ezra’s fingers fidget around the slender stem of his unused paintbrush. "Do you ever get so lost in your art, you scream out, scream for a muse that doesn't exist but you know is so very conceivable?"

Is this what it is? Mad Ezra and his mutterings?

As if sensing my thoughts, Ezra lets out a knowing breath. "I know the town hears my mutterings, hears them and thinks me mad."

"Oh, I don't think anyone's noticed at all." The truth of my lie lurks behind every word, waiting to pounce.

His stare locks onto mine. "I desire one thing, one thing only."

Please don't be a creepy old man. Please don't be a creepy old man. Swallowing the knot in my throat, I let the question flutter from my lips like a frantic bird finally set free. "And what might that desire be?" 

Ribbons of rich amusement wind themselves around his words. "I want the emotion of Melancholy."

"You mean Merriment?" I correct.

He shakes his head, firmly, more firmly than ever before. "Melancholy."

"Melancholy?" I ask, wondering if he's just joking. He has to be joking. Big-time joking. "No one needs that emotion anymore. Humanity is finally in an era of lasting peace."

"It is the last piece, the piece I need to inspire the best work possible." His gaze wanders, pulled magnetically to the untouched canvas in the corner.

Okay, this guy is a little crazy. But in a world brimming with optimism and satisfaction, Melancholy is rare and thus, valuable. I can understand where he's coming from. A little. The man wants a complete collection, even if the set has flaws. 

"I understand." My voice is a well-rehearsed symphony, accompanied by businesslike nods and subtle assurances. He's an eccentric client but I'm always up for a challenge. 

"Do you truly? Understand?" Ezra's words well up in a whisper, like they're carrying a secret he's unsure of sharing. Something flickers across his face. But it evaporates before I can decipher it. Once more, his cough fractures the quiet.

Do I understand? To grasp Ezra's full depth, and the currents of emotion beneath his surface, is tricky, like trying to hold smoke. His desire simmers, intoxicatingly close to what others call mania.

Something stirs within, smoldering softly as I ponder his unusual request.  If I can get this man his Melancholy, I think I can do just about anything.

"Just give me three days." My voice is a blazing torch. I will not be bested. Not now. Not ever.

"My walls are decorated by work from an assemblage of both artists and friends alike, but they are only worthy of the gallery when proving they faced the challenge head-on," he says, muttering away again. "Are you sure you can do this?"

"Very," I insist, though a little frightened by my own deadline.

Ezra's voice fades away, his gaze cemented to the blank canvas in the corner. "Did you know Picasso painted best, truly his best, during his blue period?" 

My attention splinters, hands scrambling to gather up my portfolio as I ready myself for departure. "Picasso? Oh. Was that your friend?" 

"Something like that," he says softly then adds, "You know I'll pay, pay whatever it takes for this." His eyes lock onto mine, fierce and unyielding.

"Sounds like we're in business," I say before I depart. I'm actually glad I came to this appointment after all. It's like being a fisherman back in olden times, catching a rare exotic fish. A lucrative sale like this? I cannot toss it back. 

When dawn yields to day, I plunge my way into the pulsating heart of the Desire Market, a place where only the daring dare to tread, tread with backbones of steel.

I'm no stranger to the darker side of the token trade. I'm an old player in this feral game. It's easy to get lost in the frenzy of it all, but I keep my focus fixed on Ezra's request. 

I wander through waves of wishful merchants. I scour the stalls of eager entrepreneurs. I even comb through the vendors who try their luck at selling offbeat items. Items like Fernweh, the feeling of being homesick for a place you've never been to. Gigil, the urge to pinch or squeeze something that is unbearably cute. There's even some Mauerbauertraurigkeit, the inexplicable urge to push people away.

But Melancholy? No luck. No luck at all. 

As the hours pass, my search takes me further and further out of the city. My head dips low, avoiding the prowling gaze of the temptation officers out on patrol who like to stalk seedy areas like this. I eventually find myself in front of a small, secluded stall, draped in the shadows of cracked walls and crumbling ceilings. When I inquire about Melancholy, a hawker named Jasper slips a coin to me.

Finally. Finally, a lead.

"Price is steep," he warns, a rasp scraping through his words like a knife's edge against stone.

"Trust me, my client Ezra is willing to pay through the nose," I say, unphased. 

"Old Madman Ezra?" Jasper says, heavy with hesitation.

"He's not as mad as you think," I declare with iron-clad defiance.

"Sure. Sure."

"I'll need to verify the goods," I insist, determined to keep my voice collected. But there's an underlying current of desperation that lurks beneath our conversation. Desperate people make their way here. Desperate people willing to do anything to make their dreams come true, no matter how dark or twisted they might be. Desperate people like me.

Jasper lets out a laugh that crawls right under my skin, cold and disquieting like the rush of wind through an abandoned field. His fingers dance over the cold coin, eyes gleaming with a glaring greed. "It costs some hefty memories to even sample."

I rummage through my case and take out my own pocket memory bank and transfer a few of my most treasured memories I’ve squirreled away for such occasions. 

He flicks it forward. I reach out and grasp the coin, hungry. I close my eyes, plunging into the metaphysical depths etched into the token, savoring the sights swirled deep within it.

As the vision of Melancholy begins to take shape within my mind, I'm surrounded by a rainy day. An old man plays a harmonica by the docks, his voice echoing, echoing through the misty air. A tiny stray kitten with three legs and fragile eyes, limps forward. An orphan named Timmy with a face streaked by tears, by sorrow, by endless nights, comes up to me, dark circles under his wide eyes. "Spare any money, Miss? Money for an operation I so desperately need?"

"The Hell." My eyes snap open in disgust, as if trying to escape the vile sight. "That. Cannot. Be. Right," I pant. Jasper's eyes bore into mine, his brows furrowed in a curious expression. 

Something vile needles my eyes from within, hurts its way down to the confines of my throat, exploding out like a thunderbolt. "This coin is going to be sold to an artist. He said it would inspire his work. I don't know what you think that was, but it feels very uninspired to me."

A hand seizes my jacket, fingers digging into the fine material with a firm grip. 

"What's a hoity-toity Desire Broker like you doing here this far out of the Market? That's clearly counterfeit," a temptation officer hisses, her eyes razor-sharp on mine.

"Of course." My fingertips scratch the cold metal which I just now notice peels off like cheap aluminum. With a flick of my wrist that speaks volumes, I toss it back at Jasper. "I can't believe I fell for sloppy work. I was just—"

"Desperate?" the officer asks, knowingly. 

"Uninformed," I correct, feeling as if I'm a mouse under the scrutiny of an unforgiving eagle.

"I don't recommend passing coins on to buyers from the lot down here." Her hand plants firmly onto her hip, her stance echoing the challenge in her voice. 

I look back at Jasper, a strange understanding flittering between us. "I asked him to make it for me."

"What?" both the officer and Jasper say at the same time.

"I, um, wanted to be able to spot the difference sooner between authentic emotions," I lie. I'm not sure why I'm covering for Jasper, but I have a feeling he could be on a similar quest as me in his own strange way. 

"But you just said—" the officer begins but I cut her off.

"It was all in the name of research."

The officer looks at me like I’m a crazy person. "Well, if you want to research you should've just gone to the document archive."

A shockwave, seismic and potent, shackles me to my spot, riveting my soul in place. "That's it!" 

"Where you going?" Her voice tails after me, a desperate plea in the wind, but my legs pound too furiously against the earth to spare breath for any response.

I find my way to the archive office where minimalization bots scour through another junkyard and digitize its materials for historical records. The huge warehouse hums with energy, the air charged with possibility. 

"I'd like all data recently collected on the topic of melancholy," I ask.

"Information irrelevant to humanity's current conditions," the nearest bot responds.

"Override protocol Amelia Echo Seven."

"Understood. Please wait while I gather appropriate resources from the document archive, section Gutenberg."

"Great. I'll go with you."

The bot pauses, deliberating with unseen calculations before speaking. "Desire Brokers do not usually accompany bots through the hazards."

"It's for research purposes."

"Understood," the bot replies as it begins to walk me through the concrete maze, escorting me through the grime-encrusted scraps.

 The smell of dust and paper envelopes me as I search through the bins where sentiments are indexed according to their primordial strength or exotic origin.

I run a finger over the bound pages, each one a testament to countless hours of soulful dedication. 

What did Ezra call them?

Books. Books were almost like the first coins, brought into this world for consumption by others seeking emotional fuel for healing journeys. Books. 

A snag of recognition arrests my attention as I spot one of the paintings in Ezra's house on a book titled Man Before Coin . The book crinkles with age in my hand as I grab it up in a whirlwind alongside other books like The Emotion Wars and Anger: Desire Thwarted .

"Please allow the minimalization bots to properly dispose of and digitize these for you."

"Research purposes!" I cry out, my arms straining under the weight of all the books they cradle.

When I return to Ezra's home, he sits in front of his blank canvas, contemplating something in silence.

"Door was open so I decided to pop on in," I say. My hands are heavy with the pressed pages of long ago. Books. 

"You've been busy," he says. There it is. Lining his voice. Underlying amusement. And another rattle of a cough masking something far deeper.

"Yes. Now, how do I create a gallery?" My question drops like a stone over still water.

"With books?" Ezra says slowly, as if painstakingly searching for the perfect words. "You don't create a gallery. You, well, read them."

"But then, where do I put them after?"

"Stories. They sit inside of you." There's an unexpected depth to Ezra's words that I'm still trying to decode.

"Oh. Like a coin," I say, still stitching all the fragments into a coherent picture. "I'm closer than ever to this Melancholy. I just know it."

"Good. Doctors say I don't have much time left." Ezra's shoulders lift in a casual shrug. He coughs until it rakes through his whole body.

Something strikes my soul. Something loud and unexpected. Something a lot like lightning sent to burn down my entire world. "You didn't tell me you were dying."

"Any day now," he pronounces with a jarring lack of concern, his eyes fixed on the blank canvas in front of us.

I notice the details I missed. Every single word he utters demands immense effort. The frailty. The deterioration. The cough. He's been dying this whole time.

"Can I work here then? For, um, research purposes?" I ask.

"I'd like that, I'd like that very much," Ezra says, his smile like sunlight breaking through dark clouds.

"Me too," I admit, not able to explain why this project still means so much to me. My client may not even be here tomorrow. My client may still want something out of our reach.

Still, I work ceaselessly, guided by empathy, yet consumed by ambition, to craft something deeply meaningful, meaningful beyond any price. For Ezra.

But the more I read, the more clouds of confusion grow inside my skull. 

Time ticks mercilessly by, each second a dying heartbeat plumbing away. I can't figure out how to make Melancholy work. Characters that live in these books of long ago have so many layers to their emotional worlds. 

After weeks gone by, Ezra asks me a question, his breath labored. “Will you sit with me, please?”

The silence stretches until I can’t bear it any longer.

"I'm sorry I couldn't make it for you," I say, a lump lodged in my throat. "I thought with enough research I could craft it from within, but I can't."

With a slow uncurling of his fingers, he reveals a coin. I know right away, just by looking at its tarnished surface and worn edges, exactly what it is. 

"You had a Melancholy coin this whole time?" Something simmers under my skin, a raw, gnawing burn. Hours funneled into nothingness, my precious time squandered. And yet I'm a compass with no North, spinning in circles of confusion.

"I just needed someone, someone to share it with. Someone to understand. An artist needs an audience." Ezra's voice thins out into a whisper.

Questions bubble up from my throat, launching into the air like ships adrift in a stormy sea. "Why me? Why this?"

"A fellow artist, a fellow artist, is the best, the best audience." His words stumble out, a frail tremor in each syllable, a dying man's last plea. "The world’s become so bland, too muted. No range to appreciate things. Sometimes you need to feel down in order to look up. Do you understand?”

I nod, still not sure I do.

“Come closer. I want you to have it," he says.

"The coin?" I ask.

With a knowing shake of his head, the hidden wisdom in his eyes sparkles like a lost secret. "The brush."

A gentle nod passes between us.

"It's time to paint." He points to the canvas that remains untouched, as if mocking him. "Time to fill it with a wide array of colors, as varied and vast as the spectrum of human emotions."

But he's weak, too weak, to even make a single stroke upon the canvas now.

"Let me help," I beg.

"You have." Ezra's whisper holds the weight of forever.

The world narrows, everything beyond his still form blurring into insignificance. A hollowness expands within me. 

Melancholy. What a bitter-sweet symphony of aching sorrow twined with beguiling power. Melancholy.

Ezra's absence echoes like a scream in the silent room, somehow reaching every corner. I weep, each drop of melancholy leaving me more expunged. I weep and it's sad but also cathartic, like lush earth after nourishing rain.

With fast fingertips, I use it. I use it to harness and capture it all into a coin, the first one built from my own feelings, not building blocks belonging to others.

The next morning, the sun cracks open a new day. News of Ezra's passing spreads faster than ink through water. Once deemed a recluse, Ezra now becomes the town's sole focus as they gear up to celebrate his life and bid him an unforgettable farewell. Finally, people are ready to gather in the town square. Ezra's celebration of life is as fun and festive as funerals typically are.

When it's my turn to speak at the funeral, I pass my Melancholy coin around. It changes the tone of the event as it finds home in hearts. Even when Jasper touches the coin, tears flow more than anyone's, tracing pathways down his cheeks.  

We don't quite understand the magnitude of what we now experience. But that's okay. We will. In time. There's a whole spectrum of emotions out there that we're meant to paint upon this world. Finally, I'm ready to broker more.

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