Gentrification is a word people wield like an accusation or a shield. In the Crossroads it’s a daily weather pattern. I bought a plain linen apron and two tea towels I didn’t need and wished her something softer than luck. Outside, a busker played “Pink Moon” on a guitar missing a string. The wind smelled like damp cement and magnolia. A little girl in a puffy purple jacket stomped in a puddle with such joy that her father didn’t stop her. He just filmed it and laughed.
At the market, I bought ramps and a loaf of bread seeded like a map. Near the flowers, I almost bumped into Mina from woodworking. We grinned, that small glow of not being strangers in a city that had tried to teach us to be. “Table done?” she asked.
“Almost,” I said. “Edges still sharp.”
“Leave one sharp,” she said. “You don’t owe them all your rounding.”