Simone always bought fruit from the fruit vendor a block away from her apartment. While there was a fruit mart just outside her swanky condo, she still preferred to go to Mr. Swell, even though it was a good fifteen minute walk. What amused her was that she enjoyed thinking something on the way to Mr. Swell and something else, maybe something totally different on the way back. Her meeting with Mr. Swell always helped to evolve her opinion. That was the effect of Mr. Swell. There was never a dull moment with him. He was a short and stocky man and wore his trousers really high, with a good leather belt that went around his stomach and peeped from the other side. He always wore a hat and she knew he wasn’t bald. He always said that to wear a hat is good for the skin. She had been buying fruit for just a few months now, from Mr. Swell, but in this extremely short period, she had opened herself to a complete stranger, who was older than her father and much more talkative. She felt that he could see through her completely and therefore that eliminated the need to be diplomatic and formal. Even when she wasn’t feeling well, she walked the fruit way so that she could chat with him, even for a few minutes. 

His mobile shop was a typical small framed New York push-cart, with a three legged wooden stool nearby, where he sat while she took fruit. Being a small business, he had not too many customers. This made her be regular in her purchases as she often felt that, maybe he didn’t earn anything at all for the day. Mr Swell knew that she would visit him at least two times a week. He asked her all kind of questions and without any thought to it. Once he asked her, why did she think it was a Wednesday? This got her and she went into time structuring and its effect on society, etc. After a long winded answer, she asked him what he thought was the answer. He simply replied, 'cause I know for sure it’s not a Thursday!'

She always picked two apples and three bananas that Mr. Swell packed in a brown paper bag. She reused these bags for her work lunch. They were good bags. They didn’t tear easily and the brown color was of course a throw from her childhood.  This was her regular diet and on a good day maybe she took a sweet melon. He would give her a 10% discount, saying that he gave it to all those who were good talkers. She never met any other purchaser at the cart, although, lots of people walked past all the time. Few saw him, maybe and from those few, most didn’t have the time anymore to jabber. This always saddened Mr. Swell, as he remembered that in his time, all people did was to meet people and talk their hearts out. Maybe television replaced that. Mr. Swell always said that she was a good talker and comfortable in her own skin.

As she approached the electronics store, from where she could turn right at the corner, she stopped to look at the store window and look at her reflection. She was young and pretty, though not the usual way. Maybe traditionally pretty; whatever that meant. She never knew that there was a term called traditional beauty. It was coined by Mr. Swell. He had called her that and after that day, she called herself a traditional beauty. Well, at least she had a tag now, even though it was given by a fruit-seller! Her father would have called her a traditional beauty too, since that is what he called her mother; ‘a homespun girl, with a fanciful curl.’ But then, they had both died in an air crash and that was that. All she had left was her reflection in a store window and then Benny walked into her life. Benny worked in the electronic store and as she waited for him to see her window shopping she thought if he could be the marrying kind. Benny was Mexican and a great cook. Not too tall and just above her lips, he was tailor made for her personality. His parents lived in Mexico and like all immigrants, Benny stayed here and there. He was handsome and witty. His store liked him and he was on the rise. But then, was she ready to marry? 

She often wondered what Mr. Swell thought of marriage and all the domestic subjects that they really never discussed. It was amazing, they never discussed anything but what was happening. Like maybe the rain, that just fell on the sidewalk as she walked, or that there was a lot of traffic. It just struck her that he never talked of what had past and what was to come. It somehow never existed. Mr. Swell never grumbled and never sighed in the anticipation of a better lifestyle. Her reflection shivered with this thought that she didn’t know anything more about Mr. Swell, although her fruit-halts were for at least fifteen talkative minutes. That in New York is big time. She walked away, when she realized that Benny wasn’t available and continued her fruit-walk. There were a few people in front of her and through the crowd she tried to spot the fruit-cart at the end of the sidewalk. It wasn’t there. This was not possible. It was never not there. It was always there. She may fall sick and get an extra banana from Mr. Swell when she recovered, but he was always there. She knew that. A tremble overtook her and she quickened her pace. As she approached the space where the cart stood and looked around, she saw a brown paper bag gummed to the electric pole, fluttering in the wind. She tore it away opened it searching for a message, some inclination of where was Mr. Swell. At the back of the bag, on the other side, was written in a crawly child’s handwriting. ‘A Wednesday is because it’s meant to be. Bye’