“Put your money away, Clara,” he said, his rough hand already reaching past me to hand a bag of early girl tomatoes to a woman in a visor.

He didn’t even look at me. He just folded my fingers back over my creased five-dollar bill.

It was the same bill I had tried to give him the week before. It had a tiny blue ink stain in the upper right corner from a leaky pen in my purse.

This has been going on for three summers. Every single Saturday morning at the farmers market on Elm Street.

The market always smells the same. It is a mix of crushed sweet basil, damp soil, and cheap diesel exhaust from the growers’ trucks.

I am a retired nurse. I spent thirty-four years on my feet at Mercy Memorial Hospital. My knees are bad, and my back hurts when it rains, but I have a decent pension.

I do not take charity. I never have.

I think it is a pride thing. My mother was the same way. She used to say that if you do not pay your own way, you let someone else own a piece of your self-respect.

So every Saturday, I would walk up to Arthur’s stand. He always has the best heirloom tomatoes in the county. They are dark purple and deep red, heavy with juice.

I would pick out three or four beefsteaks. I would put them in my worn canvas tote bag. Then I would pull out my wallet.

And every single time, Arthur would push my hand away.

He did it so calmly. He would just fold my fingers shut over the bills and move on to the next customer.

He did not make a scene. He did not say it was on the house. He just acted like my money did not exist.

Looking back, I was probably being too stubborn. My daughter Sarah tells me I have a habit of making things harder than they need to be. She says I should just take the free vegetables and be glad.

But it bothered me. It kept me up on Friday nights. I would lie in bed and feel this little knot of irritation in my stomach.

Why did he think I needed his pity? I was not poor. I drove a reliable blue Buick. I paid my taxes.

I did not want to be his charity project.

So last Saturday, I decided I was done with it.

The sun was already hot by nine in the morning. The air was thick and humid, the kind of mid-July heat that makes your clothes stick to your back.

I walked past the flower stands and the honey vendors. I went straight to the back row where Arthur parks his old red Chevy pickup.

He was busy. A crowd of three or four people was clustered around his wooden tables.