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When they were six years old, they met in the farmer’s market. 

He was watching his mother haggle with a vendor for blueberries, wondering how on earth he was going to fit all that fruit into his body. Just as the lady acquiesced to parting with her entire stock, he saw her. 

Tiny, in a blue sundress that highlighted the bronze in her hair, tucked behind her father’s legs. 

Their eyes met through the ocean of shoppers, and she smiled. When he waved, her smile blossomed into a grin. 

The crowd carried them away, and that was that. 

---

Until seven years later, when they were angsty teens too preoccupied with their own problems to care that their single parents simply wanted to spend time with them. He held on to the shopping bag with a frown, and not for the first time, he wished he’d worn a hat. 

Stalls stretched to the end of the block, drawing a crowd both local and foreign as the art museum behind them opened for the day. People negotiated for fresh kale, sweet oranges, vibrant bouquets of peonies. More were there to say they supported small businesses — before proceeding into the nearest chain restaurant for an air-conditioned brunch that would later appear on their social media feed. 

He caught a glimpse of hair that glittered bronze in the sunlight. 

There. Over by the row of handicrafts. 

She froze as he stared, and then, turning on her heel, she matched his gaze. Her smile was the same, that same beautiful thing that had his heart pounding in his chest — what was that? 

Her mouth opened like she was about to call out a greeting, but then her dad entered the frame, hands moving in unfamiliar gestures. 

A second later, his mom tugged him by the elbow, and he lost her to the mob again. 

---

Seven more years passed. He was hunting for the perfect pile of blueberries on a sunny Saturday afternoon. His friends had dared him to enter a pie into their town’s baking competition, not knowing that his mother had been the victor of said competition for eight years in a row when he was a child. All those visits to the farmer’s market had been lessons in procuring the right ingredients. 

Thanking the vendor, he shouldered his tote and headed toward the exit. 

He would have never noticed her, had those bronze streaks in her hair not trapped sunshine between every strand. She stood behind a table of crocheted plants. 

His feet carried him to her, unwilling to blend into the throng of shoppers. 

She smiled when her eyes met his, and he fell in love. 

“Hi,” he said. 

She waved, pointing at her ears. 

After a second, he walked two fingers on his palm, doing his best to mime eating. He raised his eyebrows in askance. 

A blush rose to her cheeks, but she nodded. 

And he knew then, that he would never again wait another seven years to see her.