I unlock the car, twice, having locked it manually to start with. Somehow the four bags I had arranged about my person had stayed in place and my dexterity was unimpaired. It made me smile.

“You leaving, mate?”

The voice came from over my left shoulder. Turning, I saw that its owner had a shock of curly hair that bounced down from his head in a halo, and he was leaning out the window of a long-wheelbase Defender. A vehicle painted with zebra stripes.

“Yeah,” I reply.

“Great,” he smiled, looking down the path. He’d snuck in behind me, along the walkway. It didn’t even occur to me that this was odd. “I’ll sneak in behind ya if that’s ok?”

I grinned my assent. “That’s a good lurk!” 

He winked in reply.

Dumping the veggies in the back of the wagon and jumping numbly into the car, I couldn’t help but remark to myself that there’s no better community in an Australian city than at a Sunday market.

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