“It is,” he says.
His fingers release first. Not quickly. Not as an apology. He lets go as if he has decided, with great generosity, not to make this ridiculous before breakfast. I take the tarragon because I am not in the habit of surrendering what I came for.
“Thank you,” I say.
“You’re welcome,” he says.
His tone suggests he has given me more than herbs. That should annoy me.
It does.
A little.
The vendor behind the stall, a woman with short grey hair and a quilted vest, watches both of us with open interest. Her expression says she has sold herbs through stranger negotiations than this and intends to enjoy whatever comes next.
The man reaches for another bunch of tarragon, lifts it, and turns it gently in his hand. He does not paw through the pile. He checks the stems first, then the underside of the leaves, then brings it close enough to smell without making a performance of it.
Professional.
The word lands before I invite it. He is not here to drift through Paris with a coffee and a linen tote. He is not a tourist trying to build a vacation memory out of herbs he will never cook. He’s here the way I’m here, with purpose tucked beneath the stillness. He knows what quality feels like in the hand.
That interests me more than his face.
Almost.
“You cook,” I say.
His eyes return to mine.
“That wasn’t a question.”
“It wasn’t,” I say.
“You write,” he says.
My hand stills around the tarragon. He notices.Of course he notices.
“What makes you say that?” I ask.
He glances at the edge of the notebook visible inside my bag.
“You carry a notebook through a market and look at the fish before the flowers.”
“That could mean I’m sentimental about red mullet,” I say.
“It could,” he says. “But you also asked the fishmonger when they came in.”
“You heard that?” I ask.
“You weren’t quiet,” he says.
“I wasn’t trying to be,” I say.
“No,” he says. “You weren’t.”
The vendor clears her throat and reaches for paper.
“Vous prenez les deux?” the vendor asks.
