"That's Reggie. He's here every weekend. Last month he had a stuffed raccoon posed doing karate. Very tasteful. I almost bought it.”
"Willow, please don’t fill my apartment with dead things,” he almost pleaded, like I would actually do that.
I laughed and tugged at his arm to keep walking.
“Why are we here?” Callum asked, slow to give into the unscheduled calamity that was a flea market.
"You need to experience joy that doesn't come from load-bearing calculations." I grabbed his hand and pulled him into the market. "Rule for today: you're not allowed to assess the structural integrity of anything. No comments on building codes. No opinions on foundation materials. You are a regular human on a regular Saturday and you're going to buy overpriced vintage junk and eat food from a truck and enjoy yourself."
"And if I don't enjoy myself?"
"Then I'll know you're a lost cause and I'll return you to your office with a bowon top."
He squeezed my hand. "Lead the way."
The flea market was a gorgeous mess—folding tables and pop-up tents and hand-lettered signs advertising everything from handmade ceramics to vintage vinyl to suspiciously organic essential oils. A woman in a tie-dye hoodie was reading tarot cards beneath a beach umbrella. Two golden retrievers in matching bandanas supervised the proceedings from a patch of sun.
Callum was so far out of his element he might as well have been on Mars.
I loved it.
"Look at this." I held up a ceramic mug shaped and painted to resemble an owl. "For the shop. If the shop survives."
"That's hideous."
"It's magnificent. It's going on the shelf behind the register." I paid the vendor five dollars and tucked the mug into my bag, and Callum watched with the resigned acceptance of a man who'd realized he was dating a person who collected ugly pottery.
We wandered. I dragged him past vintage clothing racks where he recoiled from a 1970s leisure suit ("That fabric is a biohazard") and through a section of old books where he found a water-stained copy of Le Corbusier's writings and held it with the tenderness other people reserved for newborns.
"Buy it," I said.
"It's damaged. The spine is?—"
"Buy it anyway. Imperfect things have more personality."
He looked at me. Held the look too long for a crowded flea market on a Saturday morning. Then he bought the book.
We found food trucks parked behind the warehouse—a taco truck, a Korean BBQ operation that smelled incredible, a crepe stand run by a woman who called everyone "chérie" with absolute sincerity. I ordered tacos. Callum studied the menu of the Korean truck with the seriousness of a man reviewing building codes.
"Just pick one," I said through a mouthful of carnitas.
"I'm evaluating my options."
"You've been evaluating for four minutes. The bibimbap. Get the bibimbap."
He got the bibimbap. We sat on a low wall beside the parking lot, eating with plastic forks, our shoulders touching. The February sun was weak but present, and the market hummed with the cheerful noise of a hundred people spending money they probably shouldn't on things they definitely didn't need.
"Verdict?" I asked, nodding at his bowl.
He chewed. Considered. "Exceptional, actually."
“See? I wouldn’t steer you wrong.” I wiped my hands and grabbed my phone. “Callum Hayes eating street food from a plastic container. I should document this for posterity. Smile."
“I don’t do?—“
I took the photo. In it, he was mid-protest, bibimbap in hand, looking annoyed and handsome and thoroughly out of his depth.
It was the best picture I'd ever taken.
