Market-Month (first stop)

Oh? Perhaps his words are made all the more irresistible by the playful tune of his accent (this performance), for my mind, the traitor, too easily succumbs to a tide of imagined wares; more magical than not. What had been a standard, simple stall in a line of many the same, becomes a larger vehicle, coloured beautifully like the forest, fitted inside with packed stalls of its own; thread, pottery, books! Words roll off his tongue in a timbre of warmth, the melodic sounds distinctly foreign and very enticing. Between the voice and the dream, the lines of suspicion melt from my skin. There is a pause, time enough for my thoughts to shake free of their bind. “A Weaver, yes, of baskets and rope.” I affirm with a little more confidence. Only briefly, these eyes sail past him to admire the sparkle of the moving water; to consider my next move in private. “Would you have interest in either?” The temptation is real, though I know I risk Mother’s disapproval. It would only be one thing… Right?