This is a story about the present.

Margaret, a rather wonderful person, (an adjective that will remain unqualified) is walking towards a fruit stand in a dowdy market. It smells like the incense they typically burn in order to create the mystic mood, or to designate the store as ‘of the earth’. Giant balls of sweat form at Margaret’s hairline that matt her bangs in stringy clumps on her forehead. Simultaneously balls of sweat roll down the line of her back where her spine is surrounded by muscles. Likewise sweat beads against her thighs and runs down her calves in long, thin lines.
It is hot outside, and Margaret is not wearing sunscreen, nor is she wearing a hat. She is acutely aware of this fact and thus her travels become anxious and hastened, creating even more sweat.

Her foot steps are calculated and precise, her navigation between the peoples in the market space is immaculate. She misses no beat, not an empty advantageous gap. Upon arriving at the fruit stand she grabs a green broken basket and begins collecting her usual items and two surprises. Bean sprouts, grapefruit, 4 perfect apples, cauliflower, broccoli and one purple onion. The surprises this week: Pineapple and asparagus. This is done over a ten minute period, slowly.

To be truthful, at first entry she wipes her forehead and bangs with the back of her hand, enjoying the immediate relief shade provides from the sun. She then savours every moment of picking the perfect fruit, or gazing at the prices, of tasting the choice of surprise, of imagining its incorporation into delicious recipes or perfect moments during the day. After about 20 minutes of reflection, and nostalgic bliss, Margaret takes her items to the line up to be weighed, costed and paid for. She extracts the coins from her woven change purse, places her purchases into a canvas bag and begins her return home, on streets ignited by the sunlight, where any moisture yet left in the pavement is extracted, appearing in the distance like clear flames rising. Upon walking she becomes a pool of humidity. Her clothes stick to places on her body in awkward uncomfortable folds and angles. Her hands being occupied, the folds stay that way. Her skirt bunches higher and higher into her thighs. She does mind this, it bothers her and the fact occupies her thoughts as she walks. She feels ridiculous. But that’s what everyone looks like, those especially who’ve purchased handfuls at the fruit stand.