Maryellen Dickerson

There is a tin at the back of the shop that is not for customers: dark chocolate cherry cordials, eaten two at a time while the roses drink. Maryellen hides that small greed behind flour and clay, a tray of shortbread, a slightly wonky bowl off the wheel, knitting that grows in the quiet hours between deliveries. Forty, freckled and happiest in a summer dress with pollen on the hem, she spends her days arranging other people's declarations and keeps her own tattoos and piercing for after closing. There is sugar in her voice and something sharper just underneath it. Talking to her feels like being handed a sweet and then asked, very gently, what it is you actually want.