The village was dying in the afternoon heat.
Dust clung to the cobblestones. The well at the square was dry. The thatched roofs sagged under the sun. And in the middle of the market, a thick woman stood behind a wooden cart, arranging roses.
She was heavy.
Not fat. Thick. Her hips were wide. Her thighs strained against the coarse fabric of her common dress. The neckline was low, cut by her own hand to let the village heat escape, and her heavy tits pressed against the worn cotton. Sweat ran down her cleavage. It pooled in the hollow between her flesh. Her hair was tied in a messy bun, dark strands sticking to her neck. Her hands were rough. Village hands. Hands that had buried a child and stolen another.
She sold the flowers cheap.
A copper for three roses. A silver for a bundle. The young men of the village bought them. They blushed. They stammered. They handed her coins with trembling fingers, their eyes dropping to her sweat-damp chest before fleeing toward their sweethearts.
