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Saturdays were nice, and Erik roused to meet one of summer’s few of them.
No GM breathing down his neck. Sleeping in. Lazy strumming. Maybe an edible, maybe not. Maybe five. Definitely a bowl of off-brand Golden Grahams.
Do I have strawberries? I feel like strawberries.
He lay silently, feeling the room around him wake with him. His body said ten a.m. Or just after it. The sun was already high in the sky, but all he could see of it slipped through cracks in the blackout curtains enough to cast warm pockets of light across his body—nearly naked, tangled in sheets. The AC buzzed. It rattled the old panes of glass like a cicada with a volume dial. The breeze spilling through the slats of the machine was just enough to keep the summer heat and humidity at bay—but not enough to completely dry his hair, still damp and disheveled after last night’s shower.
He stretched, his spine popping as he unfurled like the leaf of a fiddlehead fern. He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling, the overhead fan spinning in quiet circles. Clockwise. He’d read somewhere once that the direction the blades should turn depended on the time of year.
Are they spinning the right direction?
He’d have to look that up later.
And no morning wood always made for a half-decent start to the day.
His finger traced the swirl of a melody across his abdomen, the notes blooming into something he didn’t quite hear with any real clarity yet. But he could hear the streets of Troy stirring with laughter, car engines, the occasional yap of a dog.
Saturday. The farmer’s market in full swing. He’d get strawberries.
He grabbed his phone, half-buried under his pillow, from the charger and absently went through notifications—social currency, an exchange of likes and comments on the band’s feed, and his own. Heart emojis. Fire emojis. A few middle fingers used in jest. Someone’s habitual double taps on a photo that wasn’t really all that good.
We need to get better photos, he thought dryly.
There were a few texts from Damien buried at the bottom of his notifications—the link to some short form video—the right brand of stupidly funny-but-forgettable content that the two brothers shared a love of.
Double tap. Laugh emoji.
The second a sheepishly detailed admission of an Anne-From-Work sex dream. That one made Erik grin for real, and he replied with, “I knew you were kinky.”
Damien pretended to be annoyed, replying with only “🙄.”
The second Erik opened the front door, the heat kissed his neck like it had missed him. He squinted into the brightness, slipped on his knockoff sunglasses, and let the small city wash over him—the roll of rubber tires nibbling the cracked asphalt, a near-distant acoustic set, and the faint smell of something smoky and sweet.
He needed a coffee—iced.
His sandals kept time as he walked, past circling cars trying to find parking, past sawhorses and police cars into the sea of white and black canopies, dodging throngs of people lining to get freshly-cooked crepes and craft whiskey.
Smack dab in the middle of the farmer’s market, the coffee shop was bustling—bodies spilling from the doorway with peeling vinyl decals. But it was Saturday, and aimless, he waited patiently. Ambient conversations rotated in and out of his awareness—a nephew’s broken ankle, a newly-purchased pothos plant with mealybugs, a new computer, and someone who hated her job.
Mood.
“Lavender today for you Erik?” asked the barista.
He nodded, grinning and pulling cash from his worn leather wallet, barely held together with duct tape, stain flaking off with every brush of his thumb. “Oat milk. Extra ice. Large. Please.”
And a few minutes later, he was once again strolling the hot streets, him and his takeaway cup in a competition for who could sweat the most. He sipped from his coffee, casually browsing each stand until he found one that caught his eye. It was bursting with color, overflowing bins with rainbows of produce. He picked up a basket of strawberries and gazed at it—plump and beautiful, a red so vibrant it could only be described through taste—same as a woman’s lips.
“I hope you buy that before you take a bite,” said a woman from behind him. He turned to see a young woman with a gaze so bright it could unravel him, but she was smiling gently. She wore a faded apron with more than a few stains—dirt and juice, no doubt—and her hair was tied back in a messy bun. Her cheeks were flushed in the heat, a face full of freckles, her dimples shallow—like those on her strawberries. There was no real accusation in her expression. She was pretty. Real pretty—in the effortless kind of way.
He pulled a five dollar bill from his wallet and handed it to her. Without hesitation, he plucked the top berry off and sank his teeth down to the stem, juice dribbling down his chin and his fingers—sugary, supple, fragrant.
He looked her in the eyes as he licked his thumb clean of the sweet juice.
Her breath caught.
Click.
“They’re actually six dollars. Or two for ten,” she breathed as he swallowed the bite. She smiled, a little wider now, and handed him a napkin from the pocket of her apron. “You’re going to make a mess,” she said, voice quiet, teasing but careful.
He took it, nodding like it was a fair cop. “Too late,” he said. “I’ve committed to the mess.”
That earned him a laugh—not the full kind, but the kind you give when something slips past your defenses a little faster than anticipated.
She reached for another basket, holding it out to him like a peace offering.
“This one’s on me,” she said, then handing him a paper bag. “Call it… payment for your dramatics.”
He accepted it with a nod that was almost a bow. He winked. “I hope I earned the tip.”
“You didn’t,” she said, but she was still smiling.
And then she turned away, attention pulled away by the “excuse me” of another customer—like a sail that didn’t quite catch the wind.
He didn’t linger. Just turned and drifted back into the swell of the market.
The heat pressed down a little heavier now. The crowd carried him for a while, letting their laughter braid into the music in the distance, in his head. He didn’t need to know what song was playing. He already had one forming at the edge of his ribs. He hummed it, low, under his breath. Just a few bars. Just enough.
A bag of strawberries in hand. Coffee in the other. A bowl of off-brand Golden Grahams waiting in the cabinet.