12. Nest

It’s a soft Saturday morning.

A slight heat lingers in the air as clouds the colour of Himalayan sea salt begin to slip into a dusty lilac sky. She checks her watch again, it’s just a quarter to 8. She’s on course to make it to the market just in time for opening.
She passes the familiar shopfronts that are still closed or quietly setting up for the day. The big windows show the tired movements of the early-shift workers behind them. When she passes the shops that are still closed she is greeted by her own reflection, backed by the glow of the morning.
As she approaches the charming café on the corner, with its pinstriped umbrellas and neatly handwritten A-frame sign, she deliberates stopping inside to pick up a coffee. The dark interior with its cosy lighting and the whir of the espresso grinder draws her in. The smell of freshly ground coffee and bacon hits her when she steps inside, making her hungry all of a sudden.
Five minutes later, she is sitting under one of the pinstripe umbrellas, sipping a latte in between taking bites of her bacon and egg sandwich. The main strip of town is still quiet, but there are rumblings of the day’s beginnings. Cars begin to pass more frequently and there’s a new pace of patrons entering the café. As the last of the soft pink slips off the clouds overhead, she finishes her breakfast and heads onward toward the market.
When she arrives the stalls have a few customers here and there, but there’s no bustle yet. Just the way she likes it. She follows the familiar route to the produce. On the cobbled section of the road, she passes the woman who makes novelty cuckoo clocks, the artisan baker–whom she’ll see on her way out, and the beeswax candle maker.
Her first produce guy gives her a familiar smile. She rattles off her usual order and he begins collecting things from around the stall; potatoes, a small pumpkin, two parsnips, three handfuls of green beans, and a swede. Next, she moves on to her fruit farmer, where this week she’ll collect apples, pears, figs, and, hopefully, some blackberries.
As she picks a bag of apples up she sees a couple passing by. There in the street stands Connie Crowley, an insufferable former colleague who had recently gotten pregnant. The last time they’d run into each other, all Connie could talk about was how she had started to nest. The thought of reliving the experience sends a sick feeling through her and strikes her down, behind the benches covered in produce no less.
The instinct to hide doesn’t surprise her, she would have hidden from Connie even if she hadn’t been pregnant, mostly because all she would have wanted to discuss her desperate urge to get pregnant, but she is surprised that she’s actually doing it. Realising she doesn’t want to draw attention to herself she pretends to tie her shoe while straining to hear Connie’s voice. When she’s looped her already tied shoes a few times she slings her bag off of her shoulder and pretends to search for something, rifling through its neatly packed contents.
Suddenly her calm morning has been hijacked by a sharp pang of anxiety. While she knows Connie Crowley’s hyper enthusiasm to be a mother is a little overbearing, it’s certainly not worth hiding from. But, as she crouches next to the produce under a tent in her small hometown, digging for nothing in particular through her bag, she thinks about the last time they’d talked and how it made her feel.
A sinking feeling flooded the pit of her stomach as Connie went on about all the babyproofing she had to get done. The way she talked so flippantly about how they’d already planned for the birth and when baby number two would be “pencilled in.” Every element of the conversation sparked a mixture of jealousy and anguish through her. She stays crouched until a soft hand touches her back, giving her a fright.
“Excuse me, madam, are you alright?” her produce guy asks.
“Yes,” she sniffs, slowly getting up and subtly checking that the coast is clear, “I was looking for…my phone!” she gestures to her hand, making a dumbfounded expression as if to say I-can’t-believe-it-was-here-all-along.
The produce guy smiles at her awkwardly as she quickly collects the last bits of produce. No matter how many pink skies she sees no matter how delicious the impulsive coffees are, and no matter how charming her walk from her home to the market is, it is evident that there is something greater that she is craving that she just can’t let herself have yet.