Peridot. [c.t.]

soy bean wax, peach fuzz, cheek pinches.

- FALL 2009 -

"How do you expect your parents to make profit if you eat all the strawberries?" He perched the milk crate over his hip. He made a point of not needing a bag for his weekly restock of goods to take back home and that the crate had enough room for what he needed.

I pop the stem off my mouth and place it in the cup I'd been using to dispose of them. "People see me enjoying them, they buy the product." I shrugged, the braid draping down my arm bouncing off. "Easy marketing. I don't see you doing anything to help your parents."

He wore a cocky smirk, the heavy crate now reclined against the table in front of me. Stubborn boy. "Don't need to, I just exist and the money comes in."

"I see why strip clubs aren't necessary in this town. Just put up a table and smile for cash." My parents had just finished charging a customer for their basket of fruits, my mother coming up behind me to pinch my cheek before returning over with the customer's change.

Sundays were something I dreaded for a long time growing up. The sheer thought of having to wake up before the sun even planned on making its appearance made me want to crawl into a hole and  die, especially since I had school the next morning. It wasn't until I was well into my high school years when I learned to appreciate the early start of my day and helping out my parents with their produce stand.

I grew more acquainted with the community and their contributions to every Sunday farmer's market. Their dedication to it made me look forward to it every week, along with the prospect of getting to see my friends without the excuse of school getting in the way, not that that ever stopped us anyway.

He adjusted his posture, both hands now working to support the heavy weight of his crate, refusing to admit a bag would help him out. "It's worked out just fine." His hair fell over all the right places on his face, just a few signaling it was time for a trim, but he swiped them back over his head before I had time to focus on it any longer.

I tossed him a spare strawberry from the small box where we kept them in the stand, him catching it expertly between his teeth and dropping the crate in the process, all its content spilling all over the floor.

I walk out of my seat and crouch down to him by the ground, gathering all the books, bread, coffee ground packets, and the additional plastic bag carrying all the produce he'd just bought off my parents, who argued he didn't need to pay for it, but he insisted.

My parents adored him, and everyone around here for that matter, but my relatives held him dear to their hearts for reasons unknown to me, but I couldn't really blame them. He made it easy to love aimlessly and recklessly.

"I'll be the judge of that." Our eyes catch each other briefly as I hand him a copy of his next read, Catcher In The Rye, and we stay like that for a beat before it's gone.