The Market Stall Flirtation
"She sells handmade jewelry at Brick Lane every Sunday. He buys something every week—always for 'his mother,' who owns a suspicious amount of earrings. When she calls his bluff, he admits the truth: the jewelry was always an excuse to see her."
Every Sunday, he comes to my stall.
Tall. Somali. Smile that makes me forget my prices. He buys something every time—earrings, bracelets, necklaces—always "for my mother."
"She must have quite the collection," I say this Sunday.
"She appreciates good craftsmanship."
"That's the fifth pair of earrings this month."
"She has five ears?" He grins. "Kidding. She just has very good taste."
I wrap the earrings. Our fingers brush when he takes them.
Six months of this. Six months of casual touches and lingering looks.
I'm starting to think his mother doesn't exist.
"I have a question," I say the next week.
"I have an answer."
"What's your mother's name?"
He pauses. "Why?"
"Because you've bought her over two hundred pounds worth of jewelry, and I've never met her." I lean across my stall. "I'm starting to think you're collecting these for someone else."
"Someone else like who?"
"Like yourself." I hold his gaze. "Or like someone you're too shy to just ask on a date."
His smile falters. Becomes something more honest.
"What if she says no?"
"She hasn't yet, has she?"
"Fine." He sets down the bracelet he was pretending to examine. "My mother has never seen a single piece I've bought."
"I knew it."
"They're in a box in my flat." He runs a hand through his hair. "I kept thinking I'd give them to you. That I'd work up the nerve to say something. But every time I came here—"
"You bought more jewelry instead."
"You're very convincing." He laughs at himself. "And I'm very much a coward."
"You came back every week for six months." I come around my stall. Stand in front of him. "That's not cowardice. That's persistence."
"Is there a difference?"
"The difference is whether you do something with it." I take his hand. "My stall closes at four. There's a café on the corner."
"Are you asking me out?"
"Someone has to."
Coffee becomes dinner.
Dinner becomes walking along the canal in the dark, talking about everything—our families, our dreams, the six months we spent circling each other.
"Why did you keep coming back?" I ask.
"Because every Sunday you were there. Consistent. Real." He stops walking. "Most things in my life are chaos. You were something I could count on."
"I'm just a jewelry maker."
"You're art." He touches my face. "Every piece you make is beautiful. But the woman making them—she's the masterpiece."
"That's very smooth."
"Six months of practicing." He leans closer. "Can I kiss you now, or do I need to buy more earrings first?"
He kisses me by the canal.
No earrings required. Just us and the water and six months of waiting finally becoming something.
"Idris—"
"I've wanted to do that since the first Sunday."
"Why didn't you?"
"Because you looked at me like a customer." He pulls me closer. "I wanted you to look at me like this."
"Like what?"
"Like I matter."
We go back to his flat.
He shows me the box of jewelry—twenty-three pieces, organized by date of purchase.
"This is obsessive," I say.
"This is courtship." He picks up the first earrings he ever bought. "I told myself I'd give these to you when I finally asked you out."
"You didn't ask. I did."
"Then they're yours anyway." He fastens them on my ears. "My first gift to the woman I've been admiring for six months."
"And the others?"
"For every milestone." He kisses me. "First date. First kiss. First—"
"First what?"
"First night." He reaches for the next piece. "If you want."
I want.
In his bedroom, surrounded by jewelry he bought for me, I finally become more than the market stall girl.
"You're beautiful—" he says, undressing me slowly.
"You've been buying my art for six months. I should hope you think so."
"Not the art." He kisses down my body. "You. Just you."
He worships me like I'm precious.
Like I'm one of the pieces he's been collecting—to be treasured, protected, held carefully.
"Idris—yes—"
His mouth finds me. Learns me. Brings me to the edge with the same patience he showed for six months of Sundays.
"Please—"
"Not yet." He looks up. "I've waited too long to rush this."
When he finally pushes inside me, it feels like an ending and a beginning.
"This is what I wanted—" he breathes.
"Since when?"
"Since you sold me the first pair of earrings." He moves slowly. "You smiled, and I was done for."
"That's dramatic."
"That's love." He speeds up. "I know it's too soon to say it. But that's what this is."
I pull him down.
Kiss him.
Show him I feel the same.
We come together.
Collapse into his sheets.
Laugh at the absurdity of how we got here.
"Twenty-three pieces of jewelry," I say.
"Worth every penny."
"What are you going to do now? You can't keep buying from me every Sunday."
"Who says?" He pulls me close. "Now I have a dealer. Direct access. I might never buy from anyone else again."
"That's terrible for your finances."
"That's the best decision I've ever made."
We become that couple at Brick Lane.
The jewelry maker and her devoted customer. Everyone knows our story—six months of flirting over bracelets before anyone made a move.
"Marry me," he says a year later.
Standing at my stall. Where it started.
"You can't propose at my workplace."
"I can do whatever I want." He holds up a ring. "I had it made special. Your design, professional crafted."
It's my design. One I sketched but never made—too personal, too hopeful.
"When did you—"
"Months ago." He opens the box. "I've been waiting for the right moment."
"At my market stall?"
"Where else?" He smiles. "This is where I fell in love. This is where I want to promise forever."
I say yes.
The whole market cheers.
And somewhere in his flat, twenty-three pieces of jewelry wait for the next chapter.