The farmers market stretched along the waterfront every Saturday, and Clara never missed it. She came for the tomatoes mostly, but also for the strange little booth near the end — a purple canopy where an old man named Nestor claimed to be psychic.
Clara didn't believe any of that, of course. Still, she always stopped.
The morning was balmy, the kind of late-September warmth that felt like a gift before everything turned cold. A breeze carried the scent of cinnamon from a nearby pastry stand, letting it waft lazily through the rows of vendors until Clara could practically taste it.
"You're worried about something," Nestor said without looking up from his folded hands.
"Everyone's worried about something," Clara said.
He smiled at that. "You want to extirpate a habit. Something you've been doing for years. You think if you just decide hard enough, it'll be gone."
Clara set down the jar of honey she'd been examining. She thought about the cigarettes she'd quit three times. The way she still reached for her jacket pocket sometimes, just out of reflex.
"Lucky guess," she said.
Nestor shrugged pleasantly. "Maybe. But some things don't disappear just from wanting them to. They leave slowly. Like smoke."
Clara bought her tomatoes, tucked them under her arm, and walked back along the waterfront. The warm air moved around her gently. She kept her hands in her pockets the whole way home.