A woman walks past my stall every afternoon in this spot at 4:15. Never 4:10 and never 4:20. Her stride suggests she likes where she is going, but likes where she is right now, too. I’ll say, “Hello,” to her today. I’ll say, “Nice day,” tomorrow. I’ll say “How are you?” the next day. If I keep adding one word per day, soon enough I’ll be reciting sonnets. Eventually I’ll be saying so much that she’ll hear my voice in her head every day at 4:15, even when I go back to saying nothing at all.
Flash Fiction piece published by 100 Word Story in July 2019. View it here: 100wordstory.org/the-crayfish-seller/