London encounters (2)

In my jacket pocket, the two pounds jingle in anticipation as I squeeze through the underground ticket gate. My damp umbrella is ready, perfectly poised for crossing the station threshold into a blustery April shower. Hope the weather hasn't driven him away. I turn onto the sidewalk of High Holborn, eagerly searching for the familiar fruit vendor.

There. An avocado. Are avocados really fruit?

Another blink reveals the entirety of my neighborhood fruit stand. Blue umbrellas shelter the apples satsumas berries grapes avocados bananas, but the stall appears unguarded.

Where is h... There.

Small-framed and wiry, the greying merchant speaks into the window of a paused cab. His right hand gestures enthusiastically; the same fingertips hold the dying end of cigarette. Red hot ash falls in the wind.

Giving directions? I dismiss my first conjecture. Stupid, it's a taxi. An old friend? I envision their daily encounter--the good morning's and how's the wife's, the occasional wave through the car window when the light is green or the taxi holds a passenger. Fruit drive-thru? "Hello, may I take your order?" "I'd like an avocado, four apples, and a carton of raspberries."

I linger. The light turns green. He turns.

At the vendor's reappearance, I snap out of my sidewalk daydreams and try to remember my fruit request. Patient eyes meet my shy glance. The cigarette is put out.

"I'd like four of the satsumas."Apples, don't forget the apples.

Aged yet nimble fingers instantaneously select and bag four orange globes ("One pound") before I can continue with,

"Oh, and can I get four apples as well?"

"Sweet or sharp, love?" Love. My thoughts linger on the form of address, treasuring the sound of my fruit man's striking accent and friendly manner. I smile brightly, unconsciously.

"Sweet, please."

With the same rapidity, he places four Royal Gala apples into a blue plastic bag with the brown-bagged satsuma parcel.

I retrieve the prepared two pounds from my right pocket. In the exchange--blue bag for coins--my hand brushes his. Contact. "Ta, love."

Ta, love.

I thank him warmly, my face beaming.

"Thank you very much." And not just for the fruit.

~L