One Jar of Honey

May fourth. The farmers market two blocks over sets up on the first Saturday of the month and I have been meaning to go since February, which tells you something about how I handle intention versus action.

Simone had texted the night before to say she needed to get outside or she was going to lose her mind, which is a mood I understand completely, so we agreed on nine-thirty and managed to actually leave by nine-forty, which for a Saturday is nearly miraculous. The market is not large, maybe twenty stalls, a lot of spring greens, someone always selling sourdough, a woman with a folding table covered in small ceramic pots that I have to walk past quickly or I will spend money I did not plan to spend. We went once around the whole thing before committing to anything. This is our system, apparently. We discovered it this morning.

Simone found a vintage tablecloth at the yard-sale annex that someone had set up at the far end, not a real vendor, just a person with a card table and a collection of things they'd clearly decided to let go of. She held it up with both hands at chest height like she was presenting evidence in a courtroom, eyebrows up, fully committed.

Simone presenting the tablecloth like it was Exhibit A.

I considered it sincerely for about forty-five seconds. We left without it. We left with one jar of honey from the third stall we visited and I am choosing to call that a success.

Someone took our photo, I handed my phone to a woman nearby and she was genuinely good at it, got us mid-laugh, Simone still holding the honey jar up like a small trophy.

The radishes did not come home with us. The honey did.

I've looked at it four or five times since I got home. There's nothing remarkable about it. It's just a Saturday in May and both of us are laughing and the light is doing exactly what May light does when you're outside before noon. I don't have a larger point. I just wanted to write it down before the week starts and I forget what it felt like to have nowhere specific to be.