Noah stopped just inside.
“Too much?” I asked.
“Maybe.”
“We can leave.”
“Not yet.”
I positioned myself beside him, blocking some of the traffic without making the gesture obvious.
He breathed through the first wave of noise.
Then guided the chair forward.
We took the market one aisle at a time.
He recognized the bakery stall but not its new owner. He remembered buying pears from an elderly farmer who had retired two years earlier. He stopped in front of a display of oat milk and regarded it with personal offense.
“They make milk from everything now.”
“Apparently.”
“Does almond milk taste like almonds?”
“Not enough.”
At the spice stall, he picked up a small jar and frowned at the price.
“Did we become wealthy while I forgot?”
“No.”
“Then put that back.”
I did.
He chose potatoes, spinach, apples, bread, and blackberry preserves.
Every decision took time.
I gave him all of it.
At the fish stall, he studied a platter of smoked trout.
“Do we like this?”
“Yes.”
“Do I like it?”
“You bought it every other week.”
“That is evidence of habit. Not taste.”
He was right.
The vendor handed him a sample.
