“Ah, yes!” the merchant crows, lifting the wheat stalk into the air with a flourish. “This mysterious golden vine—”
The wheat stalk? You interrupt incredulously. The merchant falters, brow furrowing.
“What did you just say?”
You inform the merchant that the golden grass clutched in their fist with all the clumsy conviction of a child holding a crayon is called ‘wheat’. You feel a bit foolish explaining this, unable to shake the suspicion that the merchant is fucking with you. But their puzzlement seems genuine, so you awkwardly offer a few meager details about bread, beer, cereal—that sort of thing. Agriculture.
As you speak, the merchant’s eyes grow wide with rapt attention, clutching the wheat stalk like it’s suddenly something precious, now that they know what it is.
“Oh,” they breathe. “Is that where bread comes from? How terribly fascinating!”