"Excuse me." Someone tapped on my shoulder. I turned and discovered I'd been accosted by a medieval bard in a feathered hat, slashed doublet, and parti-colored hose. "Are you going to Scarborough Fair?"
"I, uh, no. Not today. I'm not even sure where that is."
"Oh." He looked crestfallen, staring at the dry-cleaner's ticket in his hand. "Well, if you find yourself out there, tell her I've got the planting finished. I was hoping my shirt was ready."
I shot an accusatory glance at my shopping basket: parsley, sage, rosemary, and... turmeric? I suppose three out of four isn't bad.
Light Makes Narrative Imperfections Shine
9 hours ago