“Nope.”
“Oh, man! I got all hot-and-bothered over his accent for nothing. What a dick.” She stops in front of one of the stalls and sniffs some homemade soap. “I was so sure he was into you, too. The way he spoke about you ... Edie, what I wouldn’t give for some guy to get that same wistful expression when he talks about me. Of course, I’d like it to be a real man with real emotions and not some faking faker who fakes, but still ...” She moves down the line of displays, smelling samples as she goes. “I’ll say one thing for Max – the dude is a committed actor. I was totally picking up what he was laying down.” She holds the soap out to me. “Ooh, smell this.”
I lean forward and breathe in, and I’m surprised that the familiar aroma gives me goosebumps.
“Lemongrass,” Asha says. “That’s exactly what Kieran ... shit, I mean Max smells like.” She pulls a couple of dollars out of her purse and hands them to the vendor.
“Why are you buying it if it reminds you of Max?” I ask.
She pops the soap into her tote. “He may be a dick, but he still smelled delicious.”
We head down the aisle of tents and browse the crazy collection of wares. It’s still early, so some people haven’t finished setting up, but if you ever doubted that Brooklyn has become the hipster capital of the world, you only need come to these markets to get proof. Everything is artisanal, free-range, and organic, even the furniture. There’s some dude selling cat-fur scarves. He doesn’t skin cats, mind you; that would be wrong on so many levels. No, he just spins the excess fur from his five Persians into wool and then lovingly knits it into neck warmers, no doubt while listening to sixties bands on vinyl and sipping his free-range, organic, recycled tea.
The mere thought makes me shudder.
Cat-man catches me staring and gives me a smile. Or, at least I think it’s a smile. His beard is so epic, it’s hard to tell.
“Pussy warmer?” he asks, gesturing to his collection.
I have a suspicion he started this whole thing for the express purpose of asking women that when they pass.
“No, thanks,” I say, trying not to act as skeeved-out as I feel. “I’m all good in the pussy wool department.”
Beside me, Asha snorts. “You can say that again.” As we walk away, she whispers, “This is your gentle sisterly reminder to get yourself a Brazilian. It’s been a while.”
“How the hell do you know my waxing schedule?”
“You walk funny the day after you get it done. That hasn’t happened in over a month.”
Dammit, she’s right. I make a mental note to schedule an appointment with Francesca as soon as possible.
We’re just about to reach the end of the aisle, when both of our phones ding. We stop and check our screens.
<No rush, but if U gurls cud cum b4 Xmas, that’d B gr8!!!!>
Asha and I turn to each other and say simultaneously, “Nannabeth,” and then pick up the pace.
“Why does she always have to text like a thirteen-year-old?” Asha asks.
“You know she dresses like a teenager. It’s only natural she should text like one.”
When we turn the corner, we head toward a large yellow tent, under which we can see Nannabeth bustling around, getting her wares organized for the morning rush. Today she’s wearing one of her tamer ensembles–a bright pink midriff top, floral overalls, and red Chucks. From this distance, when her back is turned, she even looks like a teenage girl. It’s only when you get closer and notice the wrinkly skin around her waist and the streaks of grey in her mess of curly red hair, that you realize she’s an old woman in disguise.
“Hey, Nannabeth!”
She turns, and when she sees us, her face lights up behind her trendy purple glasses.
“My girls! My beautiful but sleepy-headed girls. Thought you’d never get here. It’s almost lunchtime.”
She pulls us both into a hug, and as usual, we grunt in pain. The woman may be five-foot-three and would blow away in a strong breeze, but she’s still as strong as an ox.
“Nan,” I say, my voice straining beneath her vice-like grip, “It’s 7.30 in the morning, which is barely breakfast time. And to be fair, we were both up before six this morning, even though it’s Saturday.”
She pulls back and puts her hands on her hips. “Well, I’m up at 4am every day. I’ve told you girls before that life’s too short to spend it sleeping. Still, I’m grateful you could come and help today. I couldn’t cope without you.”
Nan usually has a couple of neighbors helping each Saturday, but occasionally they’re unavailable, and she gets Ash and me to step in. We don’t mind. Working with Nan is never dull.
“Okay, darlings,” she says as she grabs a nearby trestle table and unfolds its legs. “Help me get these up. I’m running behind. Moby was sick this morning, so I couldn’t get out of the house until he was all tucked into bed. Poor thing looked so small and pale when I left, I might have to duck home at lunchtime to make sure he’s okay.”
Asha and I exchange a smile as we set up the tables.
Nan saying she has to ‘duck home’ to check on Moby is hilarious, mainly because Moby is a duck. Think about that. She named him Moby Duck.
At first, Asha gave her props for her shout-out to Herman Melville, but Nan insisted she named him after the music artist. I thought she was kidding, until I discovered she does indeed have all of his albums. It still makes me laugh.
Another fun fact is that Moby is a girl. The duck, not the musician. When Nan first brought her tiny duckling home, she just assumed it was a boy, and by the time ‘he’ got around to laying his first egg, Nan was set in her ways and couldn’t face the inconvenience of a sex change. So, yeah. Moby has been Nan’s faux-transgender best friend and roommate since Grandad died, and Nan wouldn’t have it any other way.
I pull a tray of duck eggs out of a basket and place them carefully on the table. “Whoa. Moby’s been busy this week.”
Nan nods proudly. “He’s been binge-watching Game of Thrones. The stress of all the character deaths sometimes makes him pop twice a day. It’s fantastic for his laying but not so good for his blood pressure.”
It’s also hilarious that even though Nan has barely had a single sick day in all of her seventy-five years, Moby seems to be suffering from three or four chronic illnesses at any one time.
“So, Eden,” Nan says, as she stacks some crates to display her fruit and veggies. “How’s your love life? Found a nice boy yet?”
I sigh. “Nan, how come you always ask me that question and never Ash?”
“Because I know your sister is at least looking. You’re not.”
“So? You’ve managed to live a full and happy life without a man for over a decade.”
“It’s not the same. You don’t even have a duck.”
“I’ll go and get a duck today if it will stop you from hassling me about men.”