Farmer's Market
A short story.
It’s Sunday. An uncharacteristically warm one for May. 88 degrees, clear blue skies, no chance of rain.
You have on an oversized, green-and-white-striped button-down shirt. You grab your denim cut-off shorts from where they’re lying on your bed, then slide one foot and the other through them. You stand in front of the mirror to consider your outfit. You’re so glad you can finally wear shorts again. It’s shorts season! It’s short shorts season! “Hot girl summer!” you laugh at your reflection as you lean this way and that to evaluate yourself. Your legs are long and toned, the result of lucky genes and long, hard runs all winter. They stretch endlessly into your tippy white toes. You admire them, pleased with yourself. My best assets, you love to tell anyone who compliments them, a knowing grin on your face.
Your phone lights up. You pick it up. A text message from your friend.
“Heading out now. Meet you there in 10?”
You tap out a response: “Yes! Putting on my shoes now and walking out asap.”
You drop your phone into the tote bag sitting on your bed. You get on your knees and find your brown sandals under your bed, the ones he gifted you on the last Christmas you spent together — but you barely think about that anymore. You slide them on. Pull your braids into a high ponytail. Don your aviator sunglasses. Adjust your shirt sleeves. They shouldn’t look too neat, too straight, as if you put too much effort into them. You unroll the left sleeve, then roll it again. You gently shake out your right arm until that sleeve falls midway through your forearm. Perfect. Chic but casual, a consequence of the weather, perhaps.
You sling your tote bag over your shoulder as you head out to your living room, grab your keys, then step out into the sunshine. The neighborhood is brimming with movement, an electric energy coursing through as little children, elderly grandmas, and twenty-something couples holding hands pass to and fro. A woman sitting on the adjacent terrace waves at you. You smile broadly and wave back.
“Happy Sunday, Miss Ada!” you shout.
“Oooooh girlie! Where you off to looking like that?” she shouts back.
You laugh, unable to hide your delight. “Just the farmer’s market.”
“Take it easy on the farmers, will ya?” she teases. “And grab me some apricots, too!”
“I got you, Miss Ada,” you respond as you pull the small gate shut in front of your building and head down the narrow sidewalk.
A steady stream of farmer’s market shoppers head toward you carrying paper shopping bags and delicately wrapped fresh flowers. You take out your wired earphones from your tote bag and slide them into each ear as you walk. You open the music app on your phone and hit play. Madonna fills the space between your ears. I hear you calllllll myyyyyy nameeeeee and it feels likeeeeee home, you mouth wordlessly as you look both ways before stepping into the crosswalk.
The restaurant on the other side of the street has finally re-opened, you notice. Grade Pending, the sign taped to the screen says. Fourth time’s the charm, you think to yourself. The tables outside are already crammed with the weekend brunchers. A waiter wearing a blue apron around his waist opens the door of the restaurant, carrying with him a distinct aroma of cinnamon and cardamom spices. You stop cold in your tracks, you stare at the scene in front of you and blink once, twice. There you are, sitting on your sofa at your old apartment, trying to make sense of the complicated instructions on the sheet of paper in front of you. There he is, sitting at your dining table, eating a plate of cardamom-spiced chicken and rice he made for dinner, scrolling on his phone. You, your stomach filled with a knot you cannot describe, an ache you try to push away. Him, laughing at something on his phone. You, your eyes overflowing with tears that you cannot explain, the reality of what you’re about to do slamming you in the face, taking your breath away. You are going to stab yourself with a needle. You are going to stab yourself with another needle. You hate needles, you’re terrified of them, but you must do this, and you must do this alone. You will do this every night for ten days. You will feel nauseous each time. Your breasts will swell after five days, your stomach will bloat after eight. No exercise for you, no, not even a “light, easy jog”, they stressed. It’s very dangerous. It cost you tens of thousands of dollars. You paid all of it yourself. You will not run, you will not waste all that money. The following week, you will take the train into the city every day while more needles are poked into your arm and your blood is tested and your belly is examined. On the final day, you will go under anesthesia for the first time in your life. When it’s all done, when you wake up, you will learn only three made it. All that money, all that stabbing, for just three. Not even enough odds to turn into a single child. He won’t be there to pick you up. No, your best friend will be the one to take the day off work to meet you at the clinic and take you home. You will sob in the taxi all the way home. Your best friend will think you are sad about the outcome and reassure you that this happens and that you can afford to do another round and thank god you can even do it now, can you imagine if you were forty seven and desperate and going through this? But how will you explain to her that the reason for your sorrow is the crushing reality that your relationship is over, the humiliating realization that you wasted your best years with someone who never saw a future with you?
Someone shoves you, startling you back to present day. You are blocking the busy sidewalk. You step aside to let other pedestrians pass. That was so long ago now, a lifetime ago almost. You lift your phone to change the music. Madonna won’t do. Something more upbeat. You scroll, scroll. There it is! You tap the screen. I’m gonna have myselfffffff a real good timeeeeeeee! You continue in the direction of the farmer’s market. It’s a lovely day. The sun is out. Summer is here.
Your phone buzzes. Your friend has sent you a photo. It’s a row of cream-filled sugar-dusted cronuts, your favorite.
“Want one? This line is hella long.”
“Yes!” you tap right back without missing a beat. You follow up with, “I’m a block away.”
The promise of the pastry awaiting you puts an extra pep in your step. You cross the street and enter the park and find the farmer’s market is already bustling with activity. A friendly golden retriever on a leash stops at your feet and looks up at you expectantly. Its owner nods his permission to you. You bend down to let the dog sniff your hand, then scratch its neck. “Who’s a really good boy?” you croon, as the dog excitedly wags its tail. “Cute dog!” you say to its owner. A small group of teenaged kids stand in one corner animatedly reacting to something on their phones. A man holding a ukulele finishes playing what sounds like a Britney Spears song to applause from a growing crowd. A small boy wearing a bright yellow shirt with matching pants walks over shyly and drops a note into his collection bowl. The musician flashes a gap-toothed grin and gives him a high five. He grins back and walks gallantly back into the crowd. The musician adjusts his stool, then launches into another popular hit. The crowd lets out a cheer and starts singing along. You walk along the edge of the crowd to find the bakery stall. You see your friend before she sees you. She is wearing a bright pink short sleeved dress and a sun hat and has her back turned to you. You can’t see her face, but you know it’s her. You pull out your earphones and wrap the cable around your phone. You walk up to her and pinch her butt.
“Oww!” she yelps as she turns around. The frown on her face disappears when she sees it’s you. She bursts into laughter. “I was about to punch you in the face!” she says, pulling you into a hug.
You laugh as you return her hug. “Haha, but you didn’t!”
She hands you a paper bag with the delicate pastry. You pull it out and immediately bite into it.
“Oh my gosh, so good,” you murmur, licking the cream coating your fingers. Your friend starts walking in the direction of the next stall. You fall in step behind her. “I haven’t had one of these in so long.”
“How come?” she asks. “They’re here every weekend.” She grabs an apple on the table to inspect it.
“We used to get cronuts from that stall literally every Sunday.”
“Who?” she asks.
You are silent. She looks up at you, she looks at the cronut in your hand, she looks back at the apple in hers. “Well, it’s our tradition now,” she says, refusing to take the bait. She drops the apple into the plastic bag in her other hand and picks up another one. She changes the topic: “How’s your weekend so far?”
“Pretty good,” you mumble, as you take another bite. “I didn’t do much last night, ended up going to bed early.” You swallow. “What did you get up to?”
“My coworker bailed on our plans,” she responds, “so I just stayed up late and watched a movie.”
“That sounds depressing.”
“It was nice, actually!” she smiles. “I finally watched Boyhood. Have you seen it?”
“Not sure. Is that the coming of age one… follows the same boy as he becomes a teenager… or something?”
“Yeah!” she says. “Ethan Hawke is in it. You might like it. So it’s about this boy growing up in like, Texas or something, and…”
At first you’re listening — you like Ethan Hawke, maybe you’ll check it out. A flash of yellow in the corner of your eye gets your attention. You turn your head and see the little boy from earlier dash toward the street as he chases a cat. He is running parallel with the direction of traffic so not in any real danger, at least not yet, and a woman, his mother presumably, or perhaps an aunt or sister or babysitter chases after him, yelling out his name. Your eyes trail the duo, and you are mildly amused; it’s like a scene out of a cartoon.
But then you look up toward the street, and your world comes to a halt.
He is sitting on a bicycle at the intersection, one foot on a pedal, the other on the ground. He has on over-ear headphones, and his head is down, he is looking at his phone. Even from this distance, you can tell he is squinting to avoid the glare from the midday sun. He is wearing a white t-shirt and patterned blue shorts. At first you think it’s the pair you got him, but this print looks unfamiliar; these are a different pair. You are transfixed for a moment: your breath feels shallow, your heart beats wildly, the sounds of the market suddenly seem distant. You feel an urge to walk toward him, to call out his name, to rip his headphones off and make him look at you, to ask him where he’s been all this time, why you meant absolutely nothing to him, how you meant absolutely nothing to him. But you cannot move, your body is frozen in place. His long, hairy legs disappear into crisp white sneakers. Sockless. It’s been five years since you last saw him, five years since he last walked out of your apartment, five whole years since either of you said a word to the other. The thought seems unfathomable now, almost comical. Your mind jumbles with fragments of your memories. The ugly fights, his ugly words, your ugly cries, your ugly despair. He looks up as if to check the streetlight hasn’t changed, and you almost jump out of your skin. Suddenly you feel an overwhelming desire to crawl under a table. You cannot face him now, you are not prepared to confront him. What will you say? What will you do? Your armpits feel moist with sweat. He looks back down at his phone, and now you want to run away, to turn around and go back to your home and climb into your bed and to never have left your apartment today. Your mouth feels dry, your heart thuds loudly in your ears, your hands feel strangely clammy. You look down at them, one holding the half eaten cronut, the other clutching your phone, both shaking as though it were a foggy winter morning.
Your friend taps your shoulder, she’s calling your name. You turn to face her, then you look back at the street. He’s gone.