#purpleselection

So there he was, wearing a tight shiny metallic purple spandex T-shirt he had absolutely no intention of keeping on for long, shiny metallic purple compression tights hugging every hard-earned inch of him, and matching purple-and-black trainers planted confidently on the fruit market floor like temptation had decided to do its grocery shopping in public.

Purple, according to Wells, was a very underrated colour.

It had depth. It had richness. It had bite.

And apparently, it also had a shopping list.

He moved slowly through the market, broad shoulders catching the light, one hand testing the firmness of dark plums, the other weighing bunches of grapes like he was conducting some deeply personal quality-control inspection. He lingered over blackberries, admired the curves of ripe figs, and gave a tray of purple cabbage a thoughtful look that suggested he was appreciating much more than nutritional value.

Wells claimed he was just being selective.

He liked things ripe.

Full.

Juicy.

Worth handling properly.

That explanation did not help.

The vendors watched him pick through the display with the calm confidence of a man who knew exactly what he was doing. He squeezed gently, inspected closely, and nodded to himself whenever something met his standards. Every movement somehow managed to look like a demonstration in grip strength, patience, and knowing exactly how to choose produce that could really satisfy.

By the time he reached the vegetable section, Wells was fully committed to the bit.

“Purple really is elite,” he murmured, lifting a bundle of beets. “Good shape. Good weight. Strong finish.”

Then he spotted it.

Long.

Smooth.

Deep purple.

Wells smiled, held it up like the final prize of the whole expedition, and gave it one slow approving look.

Eggplant.