"Why did you not buy his onions?"
Startled to be addressed, I drifted backward while glancing at the dark skinned man selling vegetables.
"I wasn't sure." I said.
The light was streaming onto his long brown hair, his lean fingers. There was a small ragged hole in the tan cloth of his lower left trousers. His face was sun ruddy. Dark, expressive eyes.
He studied my face and continued, "You are sure," he replied. I've been watching you walk the market. You are silent, but you are sure.
You stop and study. I think you are very deliberate. You select carefully. I think you are always sure. I've been watching you think. Your eyes tell many stories, even now standing here. You are not mute, but you do not talk."
I peered at him over the rim of my glasses. He smiled.
"Saul." He said, extending his arm. "Will you come here tomorrow. Will you?"
I walked a few steps away and turned to look back over my shoulder, "No."
"Maybe."
I wanted to ask him to walk with me. To drink a beer. To sit on the rock and share. Why was he selling vegetables? Was he a lover? I wanted to go back and buy all of his squash, his toma bella peppers. I wanted to look more closely at his brown hand. He was a man of a certain age, a man my junior. What was I seeing?
The artist was at my side now. He placed his hand in the crook of my elbow.
"You're buying more vegetables," he surmised.
"Mmmm, yes, onions," I answered.
I felt the artist's direct steering of me toward the opening in the lane where the car was parked a few feet beyond.
Scupper/4-2010
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Ashley Holt
jackie2
The Songbird
Bullet or Film
Ernesto Tinajero
Rodney Roe
Salon.com
Comments
I walked a few steps away and turned to look back over my shoulder, "No."
"Maybe." (r)
This feels like walking on the edge of a knife.
Customers who are shopping for condoms aren't there.
It annoys vegetable growers who get asked`What isle are rubbers.
that's nicely put, scupper
~R~
I've felt that way.