Ana Soria Extract from Santoku
I
t happened at a farmers’ market of all places. Fifteen food stalls crammed into a square of park that the city council was trying to ‘rejuvenate’. August had pushed for them to visit. There would be watermelon cocktails and a steam-powered organ playing them in for the market’s inaugural Saturday. Oliver had been persuaded by the promise of a stall selling the Japanese Santoku knives that he wanted for the kitchen. At the market, they couldn’t decide what to eat. Walking through the crowds, August trailed a step behind, admiring the wide triangle of Oliver’s shoulders. Rum swilled pleasantly in his empty stomach. Oliver had had his hair cut, and August thought that it looked a little too severe. He had liked it better when he could comb his hand through it and catch the curls between his fingers. Everything had changed with the new job. I’ve got to make a call, Oliver said, leaning in to be heard over the music which had started up. Wait, we haven’t seen the organ yet, August said, hooking an arm through his. The market was full of slick young couples who had only recently appeared in the neighbourhood. Before that, the park had been a meeting place for young women who strung lights from the tree branches and gathered around crackly sound systems to dance cumbia. They both reached for a sample of champagne-washed sheep’s cheese, then August led them towards a clearing where a group of children sat huddled around an iPad, ignoring the steam organ. Oliver shrugged off August’s grip and pulled out his phone. He was shorter than August and hated to be steered around.
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