At the Fruit Stall

On Saturday morning Mina set off for the market with a clear plan: a fruit salad generous enough to feed the whole family, made with fruit fresh enough to deserve it. She drifted past the first few stalls, glancing at the prices and half listening to the sellers calling out their offers, until she reached one piled high with glossy red apples, sweet green grapes and bunches of yellow bananas.

“Good morning,” said the seller. “Can I help you?” “Yes, please,” Mina replied. “I’ll take two kilos of apples, as long as they’re ripe.” “They’re the best I’ve had all week,” he assured her. He chose each one with the care of a man who knew his trade and tipped them into a paper bag, which he weighed on a pair of old brass scales.

“Do you happen to have any oranges?” she asked. “I’m afraid not; they sold out first thing,” he said. “I do have some lemons, though.” “No, thank you,” said Mina. “A little lemon would only upset the balance of the salad.” The seller shrugged good-naturedly, as if he had heard that opinion many times before.

“And are there any strawberries?” “Yes, a few at the back,” the seller said, lifting a crate so that she could see. They were small and intensely sweet, and their scent reached her before she had even leaned over. She chose a single box, certain that nothing else would improve the salad, and held it carefully against her chest.

“How much does that come to?” she asked. “Six euros fifty.” Mina paid, thanked him and shouldered her heavy bag. Walking home through the bright morning, she imagined the faces round the table and found that the shopping had already been the best part of the day. By the time she reached her door, the whole street smelled faintly of strawberries.