The Honey Jar Situation

August fourth. The market has been running every Saturday since late May and I keep meaning to go earlier and keep arriving around nine-thirty when the good tomatoes are already half-gone. This particular Saturday Simone texted at seven-fifty wanting to know if I was up, which is her version of 'I'm already thinking about going,' and by eight-fifteen we were walking.

The honey vendor was three tables past the peach stand and I want to be clear that I had no plan to buy anything from her. I was carrying the camera, which I've been doing more this summer, just throwing it in the tote alongside my wallet because that's apparently who I am now, and I pointed it at Simone while she leaned over a label squinting like she was reading a legal document. She didn't notice for a full thirty seconds. The jar cost fourteen dollars and I am not going to pretend I didn't see the price before I handed over the cash.

She already knew.

Simone said, while we were walking away, 'I knew you were going to buy it the second you held it up to the light.' Which is deeply unfair and also completely accurate. I had held it up to check the color and the sun came through it the way good things do when the light is right and after that the price was just a number. She has been doing this, naming the thing before I've decided I've done it, for long enough that I've stopped being surprised. I was more surprised by the peaches, honestly, which were also very good.

The cord has been sitting on the kitchen shelf since I tied it off last week, and I keep walking past it without adding anything to it, which I think means it's actually done. The honey jar is on the counter now. Gerald's vine is doing something new near the stove. The apartment is exactly full enough.