“Which covers the greater distance?” Mare asked the man at the fruit stall. “Up the street, or down the road?”
“What does that have to do with apples?”
“Nothing, I guess,” she said, and then pointing at a bushel of apples. “Did you grow these yourself?”
“I got other customers,” he said.
He didn’t, but Mare didn’t say anything. His apples were gritty, anyway. She walked along the beach. Low tide always made her want to run away, follow the sea. Find somewhere else to lap at the land.
The shorebirds pecked at the shallows. She went home. Started dinner.
Prompt courtesy of Sue Vincent’s #writephoto.