Little Mabel slid through the market, passing through crowds of burkas which brought great gusts of wind that ruffled her dirty blond bob. A syrupy drool formed a puddle on her chin as she chewed on the large chunks of Turkish delight she pulled from her wide pockets. A dusting of powder settled on her right cheek.
Passing from store to store, she’d slip out of her patent leather loafers and try on bejeweled slippers much too large for her chubby, short feet. She’d giggle audibly as she move on to the next shop. “This place is so Grand!” she’d say. “This place is so Bizarre (but she meant Bazaar)!”.
Her sticky hands thumbed the counters of every place she entered, touching vases, jewels, bags of spices. One shop had a particularly irresistible set of teacups. They were the perfect size for her little hands and they were so ornately decorated with golds and blues. She peered around her with a naughty little side smile and slipped the cups into her pockets. “Grand! Bizarre!” she said in a sing-song manner under her breath.
With much confidence, Mable turned quickly to find her parents (who were nursing a mild hangover in a nearby coffee shop and remained completely oblivious to their daughter’s disappearance). Her coat swung wide and she turned right into the old shopkeeper.
Without saying a word, he slipped one hand into her right pocket and pulled out the two teacups, and one hand into the left pocket where he helped himself to two pieces of Turkish delight. He chomped on them with exaggerated motions and smiled curiously at little Mable.
“Irascible old man!” Mable mumbled as she sulked back to her parents