Chapter 3: Market Melodies
1028words
With the nimble agility of seasoned shoppers, Vivian and Aresha led us to an overflowing greengrocer's stall adorned with lush, freshly harvested produce. Tomatoes, chilies, kale, spinach, celery, mustard greens, sprouts, a cornucopia of nature's bounty. "Wrap up the usual selection for me," Vivian addressed the vendor confidently.
The vegetable seller, a middle-aged woman with kindly eyes, responded, "Sorry, Mrs. Vivian. I need to mention, though – the prices of kale and mustard greens have increased. Still good to wrap up? " She met Vivian's gaze with frank simplicity. It was a dance often performed between them, understanding the rhythm of trade and the beats of rising expenses.
Understanding mirrored in Vivian's eyes as she responded warmly, "That's not your fault. I've heard even the prices of seeds and fertilizers skyrocketed. The market has a mind of its own sometimes..."
The vegetable vendor nodded heartily, appreciating Vivian's understanding, "Vegetable farmers are trying to fight it well. They are forced to raise their prices a little, and this is also due to market demand. Prices are increasing, but you will still get the best quality." Packing Vivian's order, she handed it over with a nod of respect.
Next, it was Aresha's turn. Aresha had already decided which vegetables she wanted, so she ordered a medley of vegetables.
'Madam, wrap me up. Cabbage, sprouts, carrots, potatoes. Three bunches of spinach, mustard greens, and kale each, said Mrs. Aresha.
"Good!" revised the vegetable seller, who immediately packed the vegetables she bought and gave the vegetables to Mrs. Aresha.
Mrs. Aresha immediately paid the cost of buying vegetables, handing over the money to the lady selling vegetables.
The vegetable seller began to serve kindly. With sweaty hands and nervousness resounding in my voice, I repeated my list. Vivian and Aresha's orders rang in the back of my mind like a chant in a language I was only beginning to grasp. The vendor studied me with an amused smile before responding, "Sure, honey. As much as Mrs. Vivian and Mrs. Aresha?"
I nodded fervently, comfortable in the security of their experience. The vendor packed my bags, placing vibrant tomatoes and crisp kale atop as if crowning my initiation into their tradition.
I checked the shopping bag and found quite a lot of vegetables. I started paying for groceries. Then leave this place. Vivian, Aresha, and I went to the fish and meat seller. I bought some meat.
In just thirty minutes, we were done shopping. Then we immediately went home by bus.
'Moon. How's your shopping going?" she asked.
'Yes, not bad. I like to get lots of vegetables, fruit, and meat. I thought I wouldn't be able to get a lot of groceries like this at the convenience store," I answered.
"Yes, that's right," answered Vivian.
Embracing the ebb-and-flow of a traditional market, with Vivian and Aresha as my guiding North Stars, was more than a simple transaction — it was a symphony of life, a dance of community. The market was not just a place of commerce. It was a theater of humanity, where the players were just as colorful as the produce they peddled. With every rhythmic exchange of goods for currency, every heart-to-heart between buyers and sellers, the market spun stories of resilience, interdependence, and adaptability.
Gradually, the sun began to shine brightly. Me, Vivian, and Aresha separated on the apartment floor. I immediately went to my apartment. It is now seven o'clock in the morning when the sun shines brightly.
Each morning, the city awakens from its slumber to the harmonious melodies of chirping birds and is greeted by the vibrant glow of the sunrise. Residents began their usual activities, and the bustling sound of life gradually replaced the sleepy silence. Engines roared to life, children's laughter echoed around the apartments, and generic urban sounds filled the air with a pleasing symphony of life.
I entered the apartment, closed the door, and walked briskly to the window. The morning air, crisp and rejuvenating, invaded the room. The room was basked in a soft, natural glow.
Rolling up my sleeves, I switched off the lights. The room was basked in a soft, natural glow. The early morning scene outside my window and the cool air made it a perfect setting to start my day. I breathed deeply and muttered, "What a lovely morning to cook a breakfast feast!"
Descending into the kitchen, I recalled the culinary skills my parents had drilled into me. "At least I'm pretty good at cooking," I said, appreciating their foresight. Slicing through vegetables, the rhythmic sound echoed through the silent room, almost like a chef's musical performance. I dutifully whispered, "It's okay, Mom, Dad. I'm doing just fine. Your lessons are with me."
Allowing the scent of fresh vegetables to fill the room, I turned my attention towards the meat. I tossed in the tender cuts with a skillet sizzling on the stove. The harmonious blend of spices and flesh is filled with air with an aroma that can arouse the senses.
"Oh, it smells so good! Stir-fried meat is the best," I proclaimed, basking in the rising smoke and savoring the scent.
Before long, the task was done, and breakfast was served.
"Yeah this is not too bad a meal for today," I muttered.
Finishing off the last morsel, I tried to remember the events of that night, which still felt like I was in a dream but also felt real. I felt uncertain as I returned to my thoughts, "Was that a dream?"
Shaking off the gripping thoughts, I gathered the plates and cutlery. The sound of water cascading against the utensils marked the conclusion of my morning routine.
