Sticky Residue

Orange oil darkened the vendor’s fingertips as he sorted his wares, each touch subtly favoring one fruit over another. The cobblestones registered the shifting weight of his stance with each selection—a barely perceptible pressure against soles. These small discriminations accumulated throughout the day, creating quiet stacks of chosen and unchosen produce. By evening, a pattern had emerged, not dictated by obvious flaws but by an unseen calculus shaping desire itself; even as the scent of ripe fruit drifted on the cooling air, some remained untouched.