Maddy sat up shop on a busy corner in an eclectic part of town. The old persimmon tree had granted quite a bounty this year, and her stand was perfectly positioned in an area where fruit sales were known to be brisk. Even at the ridiculously low price of four for a dollar, she was certain to make a tidy profit.

The first customer was a young human in his twenties, bespectacled, with a full set of facial fur. He mulled over Maddy’s offerings before pulling a handful of change out of his pocket.

“How much are your tomatoes?” he asked while separating the coins from the gum wrappers and lint. “Is this enough for a dozen?”

“Well,” Maddy replied as she quickly calculated the currency held out in front of her. “That’s more than enough. But these aren’t tomatoes. They’re persimmons.”

“That’s cool,” the human said as he scooped twelve of them into a bag. He dropped his coins, leaving thirty-five cents more than necessary.

The next customer was another young human, also in her twenties. She was a little more organized with her finances, carrying crisp bills in an oversized purse.

“I’d like two dozen of your apples,” she said confidently as she placed six dollars on the table. “The riper the better.”

Maddy was happy to have the business, but again she felt it necessary to set the young human straight.

“Just so we’re clear,” she reiterated, “these are persimmons, not apples.”

“Oh, okay. Whatever,” the petite biped casually conceded. “You know what? Let’s make it three dozen.”

And so it was, all day, customers would approach Maddy’s stand, misidentify her product and buy them regardless. From “funny pears” to “big orange cherries,” she heard them called everything other than persimmons. But her patrons were happy and she was happy, so that’s really all that really mattered.

Near the end of the day, a frazzled human in his late thirties — maybe early forties — made a beeline for the stand.

“How much for everything you’ve got?” he queried in a no-nonsense manner that still made Maddy chuckle.

“It’s been a good day,” Maddy said as she counted up what was left. “How ‘bout twenty bucks for the lot?”

“Deal!” he gladly agreed as he hurriedly scooped the fruit into a big plastic bag.”

“Just one thing,” Maddy offered before closing up shop. “You know those are persimmons, right? Not Minnesota Peaches or stubby bananas?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he replied, still scooping. “I have a set at that comedy club over there in twenty minutes, and quite frankly, I haven’t been bringing my A material lately. I’ve gotta get these off the street before the n’yuck chuckers get a hold of ‘em.”

Maddy hung her head and said nothing, knowing full well this human’s persimmon-plastered fate was already sealed. She packed up her stand and headed home, with a better understanding of the local market, but with a dozen or so new questions about humanity.

But she figured out the basics. The next day she doubled the price and the day after that she doubled it again.

And she always sold out.