They came in uniforms to protect themselves from damp days: raincoats hunched over their shoulders, flat-caps, curls hidden under patterned scarves. Every morning they turned up, hungry for a bunch of bananas, a pound of satsumas, or a bag of potatoes to roast, boil, or steam. She was suited in trousers—rose silk. She was sheltered by a cream mac, golf-umbrella, leather gloves. I had my red apron on. The rain popped beads on my forehead. Her look was completed with thick face-powder, red lipstick, and layered mascara. My regulars were made-up with crows-feet, pimples, and laughter lines. Those apples were fresh in that day. But she wouldn’t buy a pound, nor half a pound, not even a quarter. She picked up one. Single. Apple. She stroked it like you would a new lover’s cheek. It was the reddest of them all. It was the biggest, the roundest, and the juiciest. I felt robbed.