It started as one of those random weekday detours. I was running late for work, spilled coffee on my shirt, and missed my usual freeway exit. That’s when I noticed him—an older man by the roadside, standing behind a rickety wooden table covered in a blue-checked cloth, seven bottles of milk lined up like soldiers.
I don’t know why I stopped. Maybe guilt. Maybe curiosity. He looked like someone’s grandfather, hands rough, posture proud, not a trace of salesmanship in his eyes.
I rolled down the window. “How much?”
He didn’t smile. Just nodded toward the plastic cup he’d set out. “Taste first.”
The milk was cold, fresh, better than anything in the stores. I handed him cash and drove off with a bottle in the passenger seat, feeling like I’d just bought something from another century.
