I Kept a Tiny Sun for You in the Produce Aisle

The market closes at ten, but I stay for the last thing: the smell of cold air mixing with warm bread. My lavender dress, that ridiculous little thing covered in daisies and clover, is not a costume—it is my armor against a city that keeps forgetting how to be soft. The deep V is just physics; when I raise one arm to fix my hair, gravity does the rest, and I let it.
He comes every Thursday for two tomatoes and a bag of basil, never speaking more than three sentences. We are not in love yet, but we are doing the practical work that leads there: he checks the date on my milk, I check the price on his rice. Love, you see, is mostly errands done with attention.
Today I hold up a crystal ball from a toy shop—a tiny trapped sun—and show it to him between the egg cartons. It catches the fluorescent light and throws a small star across his shoulder. He smiles like he has just been paid in full for a life of waiting. I think: this is enough. This is the whole recipe, no garnish needed—two people, one aisle, and the quiet decision to keep showing up when the world asks us to be efficient.
I will buy him the basil tonight and eat it over cold noodles at his place, my freckles catching the kitchen light like scattered seeds. Romance is not a grand gesture; it is remembering what he likes, in a lavender dress that says I am here, ready, and a little bit warm.

Editor: Grocery Philosopher