The market square was a riot of color and sound. The air hung thick with the earthy scent of drying herbs, the briny tang of the sea, and the sharp, metallic smell of fresh-caught fish. Charlene moved through the crowd with unpracticed swiftness, her gaze scanning the stalls, her mind far away. Her mother's chores were a rote performance, a tedious song and dance she had performed a thousand times.
"Hello, beautiful ladies." The voice was a familiar rumbling warmth behind them. James, the fishmonger, stepped into their path, his thick eyebrows like two caterpillars over kind, brown eyes, his long hair tied back with a leather cord. A sincere smile crinkled the corners of his face, and his arms, dusted with white fish scales, were held open in an easy, friendly gesture.
Sara, ever the ray of sunshine, smiled back. "Hello, James."
Charlene, however, felt her skin prickle with an old irritation. She didn't respond to his pleasantry. Instead, her eyes went to his hands, then to the fish laid out on his stall, their glassy eyes staring up blankly. The contrast between his honest labor and her high-flying ambitions was a bitter taste in her mouth.
"Don't you have fish to sell, James?" she asked, her voice a sharp chisel cutting through the market's noise. The annoyance was not meant to be concealed.
Sara laid a hand on Charlene's arm, a soft, familiar weight. "Pardon my sister, Mr. James," she said, her cheeks coloring slightly. James simply nodded, his smile not wavering but losing a little of its innocent joy. He was used to Charlene's barbs, but today, there was a new, cutting edge to her cruelty.
"You know I have always loved you, Charlene," he said, his voice dropping to a low, earnest tone that ignored her previous insult. "I would like your hand in marriage."
A bubble of incredulous laughter escaped Charlene. The sound was harsh and brittle, like breaking glass, and she didn't bother to suppress it. The image that flickered through her mind was absurd: herself, in a simple linen dress, her hands smelling of salt and fish, forever bound to this world of common, honest work. The thought was so laughable, so insulting to her grand designs, that she felt a giddy, almost hysterical pleasure.
"I'm not in your league, James," she said, her voice hard with cold finality. She grabbed Sara's arm, her grip tight and unyielding. "Now if you'll excuse us." She pulled her sister away, her boots crunching on the shells and offal littering the ground.Sara stumbled after her.
"You didn't have to be so rude," she whispered, her voice laced with disappointment. "He is a kind man with a good job."
"A good job?" Charlene scoffed, not slowing down. The market fell away behind them, replaced by the quieter, dustier streets of their neighborhood. She felt a familiar surge of superiority mixed with the old resentment.
"He sells dead fish for a living. That is not 'good,' Sara. It is… pathetic."Sara fell silent, but her disapproval was a palpable weight between them. For Charlene, it was proof of her sister's naiveté, her contentment with a small, predictable world. The more Sara preached acceptance, the more Charlene's ambition burned with a fierce, purifying heat.
"You should know your worth, sister," Charlene said, the condescension in her voice as practiced as her new smile. "You're truly beautiful, but the problem is you always settle for less." The words were meant for Sara, but they were also a steel trap snapping shut on her own past. She would not settle. She would not smell of fish. She would not be "kind." And as they walked away, she didn't see the hurt on her sister's face, only the glimmer of her own distant, desperate future.