One of Everything

The stall stood at the far end of Deptford market, past the fruit. It sold single things: one knife, one fork, one cup with no saucer. Nobody wants one of anything.

Keisha did. Her first flat had a table and two chairs and nothing at all to put on them. In April she bought two knives for a pound. In May she found a fork with a thin blue line on the handle, and the man wrapped it in newspaper like it was silver.

By June he knew her. He started keeping things back under the table for her: a teapot with a small chip in the lid, four cloth napkins, a wooden tray that was wider than her whole table.

“The tray’s too big,” she said.

“You’ll get a bigger table,” he said.

In September her cousin came for dinner. Nothing on that table matched. One fork was heavier than the other three. The teapot was green and the cups were white, and the napkins were older than Keisha was.

“You should just buy a set,” her cousin said.

Keisha shook her head. She knew which Saturday every piece on the table came from. A new set would come from one afternoon in a shop, and she preferred her own.