Market Street by Anita Hughes Page A

Cassie picked out two red tomatoes and weighed them on the metal scale.
    “The yellow tomatoes are sweeter.” A girl stood behind her, holding a bag of yellow tomatoes.
    “Thanks, I’ll try one.”
    The girl had feathery blond hair and big brown eyes. “The co-op has the best heirlooms.” She placed her tomatoes on the scale. “I eat them with salt and oregano.”
    “I’m making pizza.” Cassie frowned. The girl looked vaguely familiar, like she’d seen her at the co-op before. She wore a bomber jacket and army green rain boots.
    “I eat pizza every other day. The waiter at Gino’s gives me buy-one-get-one-free coupons.” The girl looked closely at Cassie. “Hey, I know you. You’re the woman who owns Fenton’s.”
    Cassie blushed. “My mother owns Fenton’s.”
    “I returned that pendant after Christmas and you gave me a refund.” The girl stood very close to Cassie. She had long blond eyelashes.
    “I remember.” Cassie froze. She gripped the handle of her shopping cart.
    “It was nice of you to give me cash instead of store credit.” The girl smiled. She had full red lips and straight white teeth. “I bought myself a microwave so I can heat up chicken rice bowls. I was vegetarian for a while; my boyfriend made me feel guilty for eating meat. We lived on tofu for months. I mean, tofu is okay if you drench it in soy sauce”—the girl ate a grapefruit sample and handed one to Cassie—“but I grew up on a farm in the Midwest. We ate eggs for breakfast and chicken or lamb for dinner.”
    Cassie wished the girl would stop talking and go away. She wanted to maneuver her cart to another aisle, but it was clogged with shoppers sampling produce.
    “My parents weren’t happy I was dating a vegetarian. They weren’t pleased that I came to Berkeley to go to school; they thought everyone wore tie-dyed T-shirts and had dreadlocks. I told them the sixties was decades ago, and that Berkeley is one of the top universities in the country.” The girl tried cucumber and hummus, a cup of salsa, and a few baked pita chips. “I love the co-op, you can have lunch without buying a thing. Try the chips, they’re really good.”
    “No, thank you.” Cassie shook her head.
    “The professors are so nice, they really seem to care. When my boyfriend broke up with me, my ethics professor gave me a present. I was sitting at Peet’s sobbing, and he just walked up to me and handed me that Fenton’s box. He’s kind of old but he has the most amazing black eyes.”
    Cassie felt her knees buckle. She tightened her grip on the shopping cart.
    “It was sweet, I was so upset I considered going home. But I thought, fuck it, I’m going to forget Jack—that was my boyfriend—and get on with it. I bought an organic chicken and ate the whole thing.” The girl brushed the hair from her eyes. “And then I went to Fenton’s to return the pendant and you were so nice, I called my mother and said California is full of nice people. I just picked the wrong guy. Jack wasn’t even from California; I think he was from Michigan.” The girl paused, sucking on a slice of orange.
    “I baked pumpkin muffins for the professor to thank him. Jack said I made the best pumpkin muffins. He lied about that too. He ran off with my best friend to open a bakery. He took all the money we saved and went to Oregon.”
    Cassie didn’t know where to look. The girl just kept talking and talking. She tried to push the cart but the girl leaned against it, as if they were chatting at a cocktail party.
    “I mean who wants to go to Oregon anyway? It rains like three hundred days a year. Anyway, I’m so over him. I made the professor pumpkin muffins and I bought a red lace bra and panties from the lingerie store on Bancroft.” The girl paused and popped a zucchini stick in her mouth. “No matter how old they are, men can’t resist lace.”
    Cassie leaned forward against the shopping cart. She could hear her heart hammering in her chest. When she