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Amy shifted her basket so that it was directly in front of her, both hands on the leather handles, in battle position. Ahead of her a knot of people clustered around the booth selling miniature pies and tarts. A couple teen girls, dressed in black nylon smocks that signified they were enrolled in the downtown beauty college, scowled as Amy wriggled through the throng. She should've picked the small gap between two older gentlemen to squeeze through. Coming between women and sugar fixes was always a bad idea. People had poured out of the downtown businesses to find a meal at one of the many prepared food stands or food trucks set up around the perimeter of the park. The farmer's market was one of her favorite parts of summer, but during peak hours the crowd was often so thick it felt like hand to hand combat as people jostled each other to select the perfect size of summer squash or the most beautiful wildflower bouquet. Being short didn't help, especially on hot days, since she was pretty much at the armpit level of most normal-sized people. It felt and smelled like she was a sardine being packed in a tin. Ugh.
The crowd thinned a bit once she got past the pie-hungry mob. Ahead, the last booth she wanted to visit was surrounded by customers. Amy channeled her inner miniature basketball player and made a break for it. Her petite stature, for once, worked to her advantage as she darted around a couple women standing in the aisle having a conversation about removing stains from cloth diapers, and slipped into a crack in the human barricade. The vendor's offerings were a sight to behold, like Mother Nature and the Easter Bunny had gotten together and made tomato babies. The table was filled with baskets full of heirloom tomatoes in a range of colors from acid green to chocolate brown. Some were as large as softballs while others truly looked like eggs. Amy had been making salads with the lovely tomatoes for over a month, but she'd had an idea while making the casseroles for Kevin earlier in the day. Tomato pie.
She chose a basket with a nice variety of medium-sized tomatoes and paid for them. Luckily she had brought a hard-sided wicker basket with her, to protect the delicate cargo from bony hips and giant zucchinis protruding from shopping bags like vegetal clubs. She tilted her head from side to side like a prize fighter before a match as she steeled herself for the last push through the mass of hungry humanity. There was only about 20 feet left in the vending area. Then she could break free and make a dash to her car. As she turned she caught a glimpse of Elliot Maxson's unmistakable helmet-like black hair.
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