The Thief

Time passed in the farmer’s market—rather quickly, as Time was being pursued by a large, bald kombucha vendor.

“Stop thief!” the man cried, waving a sloshing mason jar at the fugitive. 

Time only laughed and ran faster, weaving between stalls and hurdling canine market-goers. 

With a rattle of her beaded shawl, a young woman minding the essential oils tent made a grab for the fleeing Time. One blue-nailed hand closed around his arm, but he wriggled from her grasp. She cried out, staring at her hand, now wrinkled and liver-spotted.

Time was almost flying now. “I stop for no man,” he called back over his shoulder.

A little girl stopped munching her probiotic spelt bar long enough to stick out a leg in the thief’s path. Time went head over heels, rolling under a table of goat milk soaps and coming to rest beneath a display of artisanal bread.

Time stood still as his pursuers surrounded him. 

“You took my hair,” the kombucha vendor growled.

“You took my teeth!” lisped a watercolor artist.

“You took—“ an old woman frowned. “I can’t remember what you took, but you took it.” She shook a knobby fist at Time.

A butcher, red as one of his steaks, waved his cleaver. “I say we kill Time!” 

The shea butter lady wagged her graying head. “It’s a sin to waste Time.”

Time raised his hands with a disarming smile. “Friends, I can pay you for your trouble.” He dug around his coat pocket and withdrew a handful of gray, fine sand. “Here you are.”

The butcher scowled. “Doesn’t look like any money I’ve seen.”

“It’s time. Same thing.”

But as his audience held out their hands, he threw the handful into the crowd, blinding the nearest bystanders. When the dust cleared, he was nowhere to be seen.

“We’ve lost Time,” the kombucha man sighed. “Let’s get back to work.”