“Ten bucks is plenty, right?”
The room held nothing but the sound of our breathing. On the table, a wilting wedge of Hawaiian pizza sat in its cardboard sarcophagus. She spoke first.
“I mean, ten dollars would do it, wouldn’t it—for me?”
Of course it was a joke. It had to be. I laughed in answer, but my gaze remained welded to her mouth. Her eyes drifted toward the door. We both knew: the line might not be a joke at all.
The unwritten contract behind the bill
Why ten? A hundred would be too brazen, a single dollar an insult. Ten is perfect—two cappuccinos, a round-trip subway fare. The price of why not?
But the figure is only a pretext. It is an exam sheet whispering: What’s your body worth? And we are all, secretly, enthralled by the test.
How cheaply might you sell yourself?
Yuri and Jaehyun’s night
Yuri, 27, worked late in the fintech accounting team. Jaehyun, her boyfriend, carried a perpetual apology for her exhaustion. One Friday they ordered pizza and put on a film.
“Our team lead said something bizarre today,” Yuri said between bites.
“Like what?”
“Asked what I thought I could sell. My body? My time?”
Jaehyun laughed, sure it was banter. “Did you ask the price?”
“Ten dollars. Crazy, right?”
Silence pooled. Jaehyun set down his slice.
“What did you say?”
She closed the box.
“I just laughed. But… it felt weird. As if I’d already agreed.”
Mina and the old flame
Mina, 31, eight months divorced. Her ex had mocked her as “cheap,” so now she gave nothing gratis. On a Thursday, old classmate Min-su texted: Pizza? I’m alone tonight. Come before ten.
She arrived at 9:50. Min-su stood at the door holding the box.
“Ten bucks,” he said. “I paid.”
Mina took the box, smiling.
“So what do I give in return?”
He only gestured her inside. As she crossed the threshold she thought, Am I being bought for the price of a pizza?
That night they ate, then slept together. No one mentioned the ten dollars. Both knew it had never been about the pizza.
Why we insist on a price
Psychologists speak of value-negation anxiety: the dread that what we receive is less than we’re worth. Yet the twist is this—sometimes we want to be underpriced. Too dear, and no one buys. Too dear, and no one dares.
I’m just ten dollars, so anyone can have me.
Self-destruction? Or self-defense? We are all merchandise—of time, emotion, body, soul—only the price tag is invisible. A concrete figure like ten dollars therefore ignites a covert thrill:
My price has been named.
Aftermath
Yuri quit the next day. On her final evening a message arrived from the team lead:
I never said ten dollars. I said a million. You heard ten.
Mina kept seeing Min-su for another month. When they parted she asked:
“So what was I worth?”
“Whatever you decide.”
What’s your price tonight?
Perhaps we are all perched on a ten-dollar slice while someone asks, Will this be enough?
Will you answer—or choose to forget the question entirely?
At this very moment, what is the exact price of your body?