I caught myself doing it. There was a tall, handsome man of about my age who would occasionally come to the weekly organic Morningside Market. His gestures, expressions, and bearing were fodder for building a story of where he lived, the work he did, his take on current events, how he related to others, what he held close to his heart. One day our paths got close enough that I thought I might meet him. I am embarrassed to say that I hesitated. I had concocted such a great story about him—did I really want to know the real man? That would take effort and was sure to be different and much more complicated than my illusions of him.
How could I do that? I have been on the receiving end, when another wanted to create the story which I was expected to live. Then that person would get upset when I did not follow the script. It is a violence against someone, to be expected to stay completely within the lines drawn by another. So, Mystery Market Man, despite my poem below, I will strive to lay down my expectations and illusions if offered another chance to get to know you.
Mystery Market Man
I exit the bakery,
shifting canvas bags
with produce still moist
from the fields,
croissants set on top,
zinnias and sunflowers in hand.
Across the street,
you are waiting
to buy heirloom tomatoes
at a market stall shaded
by a white nylon tent,
your Airedale terrier
sitting next to your leg.
You smile at me.
I grin back
and head to my car.
I have seen you here
on Saturdays past,
watched you and your dog
fold into your
black convertible Porche,
heard you chatting up
permed, blue-haired women,
glanced over to see you
looking at me.
I’d like to meet you
or maybe not.
Sophia Brothers Peterman
