A Gypsy

     I saw her standing a block ahead. The old woman offered sprigs of rosemary to anyone who passed close enough to her. She turned this way and that, appealing to the people passing by. Her dark hair was plaited into a loose braid and she wore long, black layers of loose fabric. Like always. I knew from experience that polite refusal was met with more aggressive tactics.  You had to be firm with gypsies.

     A year earlier, I would have felt bad for her; standing in the street, being ignored and avoided. I didn’t know then what she was doing. If anyone was naive enough to take one, she would demand payment. They wouldn’t be able to give it back and they wouldn’t be able to just walk away. At least that’s what I was told.

     I veered to the left as I got closer to her. not wanting to deal with it. She saw me, I was walking alone. She steered herself towards me. I turned the other way, unconcerned with social graces. She pivoted and once again primed herself to intercept me.

     “Coge; para ti guapa, por...” Her hand reached out to me, sprig clasped underneath her thumb. I turned my shoulder to her and continued. I arrived to the grocery store and walked in.

    

     Not long after, I was walking back, grocery bags pulling my shoulders and digging into my hands. I hated the weekly drudge along the twisted sidewalk. I surveyed the road as I approached the crosswalk. A car sped down the road towards the same intersection. It was a brown scrap-heap that clanked and coughed black smoke as it broke hard. The driver was a young man with dishevelled hair and a worn appearance. The passenger was the old gypsy woman I had seen earlier. She sat clasping a large bag of grocery in her lap. The man turned back in his seat and the car jerked backwards and turned into an empty parking space. I looked at the ground as I crossed the road.

     “Grandma, you know Carolina hates cauliflower. You’ll never get her to eat it.” He said, mumbling so much it was difficult for me to translate.

     “She will eventually. The child needs to eat good food. You let her eat like a bird and only garbage. She’ll like the way I cook it.”

     “Have it your way.” I snuck a quick look out of the corner of my eye. He smiled as he unburdened her arms of their bags.

     They turned and went their own way and on we drudged.