In the city where I live, there’s a flea market on the first Sunday of every month.
The vendors set up their tents just a few blocks from our apartment in the parking lot at the city college. They place their treasures in chalk squares, numbered up into the 100s, arrange old photo frames and racks of vintage clothes acquired from other markets perhaps, or from family attics and grandparents’ basements. However they come by their truck haul doesn’t matter so much as the eager crowd waiting at the entrance with stacks of bills crisp from the ATM, ready to find their very own trinket from a bygone era or score the occasional piece of midcentury furniture. For hours it’s organized chaos as patrons buzz about, as traffic wraps around the block in hopes of finding a free parking space. I’ve always wanted to go. But then the first weekend of the month comes, and I have plans, or we’re away. That’s happened every weekend since the market reopened after covid. Except for this weekend.
I woke up…
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