Everyone called her Marla.
Sixty-two.
Owner and manager of Briarwood Market.
She moved quickly despite always wearing shoes that seemed designed for sitting down.
That morning she wore a bright purple blazer, large silver earrings, and a laminated vendor badge on a red cord.
She carried a clipboard.
Marla had operated the market for nine years.
She liked neat tables.
Clear signs.
Strong sales.
Minimal problems.
She also had a habit of deciding which vendors belonged before customers had the opportunity.
Successful sellers received front spaces.
Slow sellers drifted toward the walls.
Elias had begun near the middle.
By week five, he had reached the back corner.
Marla stopped in front of his table.
Her eyes moved across the boxes.
Then toward him.
“Morning, Elias.”
“Morning.”
She frowned.
“You brought more.”
“Couple.”
“You had quite a lot left last week.”
“I know.”
Marla picked up one of the smallest boxes.
Not gently.
It was made from poplar with a cherry lid.
Ruth’s wildflower pattern curved across the top.
Marla turned it over.
“Twenty-eight dollars?”
“Yes.”
She laughed quietly.
Elias stiffened.
Marla looked around.
“I gave you one corner to sell.”
“Not to clutter up my market with dusty little leftovers.”
Elias looked at the box in her hands.
“They aren't leftovers.”
“Then what are they?”
“I made them.”
Marla held the box up.
“Who exactly is supposed to pay twenty-eight dollars for this?”
Elias kept his voice even.
“I don't know.”
“That’s why I come.”
Marla frowned.
“What?”
“I don't know who'll like which one.”
“So I bring them.”
“People decide.”
She looked almost annoyed by the answer.
Elias continued.
“I made every piece by hand.”
“If they're not right for this market, tell me.”
“But please don't shame them before anyone’s even had a chance to look.”
Marla stared at him.
“Shame them?”
She laughed.
“Elias, they're boxes.”
He said nothing.
Marla put the small box down.
Then picked up a larger one.
“This is what you brought me.”
She turned it toward a nearby vendor as if presenting evidence.
“It looks like leftovers from a church basement sale.”
The book seller across the aisle glanced up.
Elias felt heat rise into his face.
He hated that.
At seventy-one, embarrassment still behaved exactly as it had at seventeen.
“I didn't bring them for pity.”
He said.
“I brought them because I made them.”
Marla shook her head.
“Handmade doesn't automatically mean worth buying.”
“I didn't say it did.”
“Nobody is going to buy this stuff if you keep pricing it like specialty work.”
Elias stared at her.
“It is specialty work.”
Marla rolled her eyes.
“See?”
“This is what I mean.”
“It’s taking table space that could be used for real merchandise.”
Elias looked around at the empty corner.
“What merchandise?”
“That isn't the point.”
He reached for the box.
“You don't have to like it.”
“But you don't have to shame it either.”
Marla held on another second before letting go.
“If the truth embarrasses you, maybe you brought the wrong things.”
She picked up the walnut chest.
Elias’s stomach tightened.
That one had taken twelve hours.
Not counting paint.
Not counting drying.
Not counting the three times he remade the lid because the grain did not look right.
Marla turned it.
“Look at this.”
She laughed toward nobody in particular.
“You really expect someone to put this in their home?”
“Please.”
Elias reached out.
“Just give it back.”
“I worked hard on that.”
Marla looked at him.
“Hard work doesn't make something desirable.”
She set the chest down.
“I doubt they’d take it for free.”