myself some produce!” I turned to walk away.
“I meant were you looking for anything in particular at the market?” he said, sounding amused.
“Oh.” Please, large earthquake, right now. Did I just tell a complete stranger my husband just left me? Something was seriously wrong with me. “No, I . . . I,” Shoot! Nothing was coming. “Okay, well, bye.” I put my head down and walked as fast as I could into the chaos of the market. What was the matter with me? I felt like I was either going to explode or die of humiliation.
Breathe, Alex. Get back to it.
I let the fruits and vegetables engulf me. I focused on the colors, the brilliant reds of the tomatoes, the vibrant greens, the purples of the turnips and cabbages, and began to calm down. I loaded my bags with lettuce, leeks, oranges, and jicama, anticipating the simple, healthy meals I would make for myself. An hour passed, and my arms were beginning to ache. Up ahead, I saw a flower vendor and, finally, actually smiled. I would buy a bouquet. Give some life and color to my now very stale house. As I passed the large stand directly adjacent to the flowers, I heard a familiar voice.
“Hey, you need a cart?” There, behind the artichokes, was the apple guy. Now that my adrenalin was under control, I could at least attempt to redeem myself. I walked closer.
“Do you work here?”
“Sure do.” He smiled and started unloading squashes from the truck behind him. “And you? Always that crazy? Or did I catch you on a bad day?” He kept working, talking to me like we had known each other for years.
“Bad week. Actually, bad year.” This time, I laughed for what I think was the first time since Tripp left. “And why am I crazy when you’re the one handing apples to strangers on the verge of a nervous breakdown?”
“Cute strangers.” He looked up from the squashes he was stacking and gave me another little smile.
“Oh, come on. I look like I should be on Dancing with the Stars ,” I said, referring to my windblown hair and slinky ZEAL halter.
“Yeah, maybe. But that deer-in-headlights-thing you’ve got going makes up for the outfit.” He smirked and went back to arranging his squashes.
How did someone earn a living doing this? Maybe he slept in his truck. I watched his hands. They were strong and dirty, very different from Tripp’s, which were big, but always perfectly clean and groomed. He said hands were important, especially when you shook them as much as he did. I blinked and tried to erase Tripp from my thoughts.
“What ‘cha thinking about? Same thing that almost got you killed crossing the street?” He spoke pleasantly without looking up. I pictured him curled up under the steering wheel in a Denny’s parking lot off the five-eighty.
“I was thinking I should get back to Marin.”
“That’s not what you were thinking, but alright.”
“And how do you know what I was thinking?”
“I guess I don’t. Hey, could you do me a quick favor?” He glanced up from the table.
“Sure, but I really—”
“It’ll just take a minute. Come back here.” I moved to the back of the table where he stood. What was I doing? This guy could be a lunatic, but part of me wanted to stay. It sure beat going back to Marin, anyway. He handed me a knife, a cutting board, and some toothpicks. “I need samples, and the kid that usually helps me had a soccer game. Just cut the oranges in eighths and the apples in cubes.” He turned and started to walk away. Then he stopped and came back toward me. “I’m Andy.” He extended his hand. He looked at me, waiting. “And you are?”
“Oh. Sorry. Alex.” I shook his hand.
He smiled. “Thanks for the help.” He nodded his head toward the stack of fruit he had left for me, then walked away. Wait!
“Andy!” I shouted. He kept walking.
“Excuse me, dear? Can I pay you for these?” A woman in her sixties held up two spaghetti squashes.
“Uh,” I looked around for someone to help me. “I
“I meant were you looking for anything in particular at the market?” he said, sounding amused.
“Oh.” Please, large earthquake, right now. Did I just tell a complete stranger my husband just left me? Something was seriously wrong with me. “No, I . . . I,” Shoot! Nothing was coming. “Okay, well, bye.” I put my head down and walked as fast as I could into the chaos of the market. What was the matter with me? I felt like I was either going to explode or die of humiliation.
Breathe, Alex. Get back to it.
I let the fruits and vegetables engulf me. I focused on the colors, the brilliant reds of the tomatoes, the vibrant greens, the purples of the turnips and cabbages, and began to calm down. I loaded my bags with lettuce, leeks, oranges, and jicama, anticipating the simple, healthy meals I would make for myself. An hour passed, and my arms were beginning to ache. Up ahead, I saw a flower vendor and, finally, actually smiled. I would buy a bouquet. Give some life and color to my now very stale house. As I passed the large stand directly adjacent to the flowers, I heard a familiar voice.
“Hey, you need a cart?” There, behind the artichokes, was the apple guy. Now that my adrenalin was under control, I could at least attempt to redeem myself. I walked closer.
“Do you work here?”
“Sure do.” He smiled and started unloading squashes from the truck behind him. “And you? Always that crazy? Or did I catch you on a bad day?” He kept working, talking to me like we had known each other for years.
“Bad week. Actually, bad year.” This time, I laughed for what I think was the first time since Tripp left. “And why am I crazy when you’re the one handing apples to strangers on the verge of a nervous breakdown?”
“Cute strangers.” He looked up from the squashes he was stacking and gave me another little smile.
“Oh, come on. I look like I should be on Dancing with the Stars ,” I said, referring to my windblown hair and slinky ZEAL halter.
“Yeah, maybe. But that deer-in-headlights-thing you’ve got going makes up for the outfit.” He smirked and went back to arranging his squashes.
How did someone earn a living doing this? Maybe he slept in his truck. I watched his hands. They were strong and dirty, very different from Tripp’s, which were big, but always perfectly clean and groomed. He said hands were important, especially when you shook them as much as he did. I blinked and tried to erase Tripp from my thoughts.
“What ‘cha thinking about? Same thing that almost got you killed crossing the street?” He spoke pleasantly without looking up. I pictured him curled up under the steering wheel in a Denny’s parking lot off the five-eighty.
“I was thinking I should get back to Marin.”
“That’s not what you were thinking, but alright.”
“And how do you know what I was thinking?”
“I guess I don’t. Hey, could you do me a quick favor?” He glanced up from the table.
“Sure, but I really—”
“It’ll just take a minute. Come back here.” I moved to the back of the table where he stood. What was I doing? This guy could be a lunatic, but part of me wanted to stay. It sure beat going back to Marin, anyway. He handed me a knife, a cutting board, and some toothpicks. “I need samples, and the kid that usually helps me had a soccer game. Just cut the oranges in eighths and the apples in cubes.” He turned and started to walk away. Then he stopped and came back toward me. “I’m Andy.” He extended his hand. He looked at me, waiting. “And you are?”
“Oh. Sorry. Alex.” I shook his hand.
He smiled. “Thanks for the help.” He nodded his head toward the stack of fruit he had left for me, then walked away. Wait!
“Andy!” I shouted. He kept walking.
“Excuse me, dear? Can I pay you for these?” A woman in her sixties held up two spaghetti squashes.
“Uh,” I looked around for someone to help me. “I
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