B2 Upper-Intermediate reading practice

Along the storefront windows, moisture from the last rain still lies like a fine film.

Felix is leafing through a slim volume of essays when a customer, half playfully, half demandingly, asks for a "fair" price.

He chuckles softly: "A book isn't junk," he says; "it's a conversation that someone broke off mid-sentence." She leaves without buying anything — but a passerby nods, pays without haggling, and murmurs that she would rather support a tradition than belittle it with talk of discounts.

Felix clears his throat and stands behind his shop counter again, as if that sentence had somehow shielded him once more.

Along the storefront windows, moisture from the last rain still lies like a fine film. Felix is leafing through a slim volume of essays when a customer, half playfully, half demandingly, asks for a "fair" price. He chuckles softly: "A book isn't junk," he says; "it's a conversation that someone broke off mid-sentence." She leaves without buying anything — but a passerby nods, pays without haggling, and murmurs that she would rather support a tradition than belittle it with talk of discounts. Felix clears his throat and stands behind his shop counter again, as if that sentence had somehow shielded him once more.

Under the old plane trees by the water, stalls line up like dabs of color against the gray light.

That Sunday, while the city was still waking, Lena listened to a vendor explain why flowering zucchini were worth more than they looked.

A tourist photographed every crate without buying anything; she smiled politely: "A market isn't a backdrop, sir — it's a conversation between soil and plate." He shrugged, but a student also paid for a bunch of basil and murmured that people underestimate such weekly rituals too easily.

Lena shook her hand: sometimes a few euros are enough to support a tradition that even mass tourism cannot quite flatten.

Under the old plane trees by the water, stalls line up like dabs of color against the gray light. That Sunday, while the city was still waking, Lena listened to a vendor explain why flowering zucchini were worth more than they looked. A tourist photographed every crate without buying anything; she smiled politely: "A market isn't a backdrop, sir — it's a conversation between soil and plate." He shrugged, but a student also paid for a bunch of basil and murmured that people underestimate such weekly rituals too easily. Lena shook her hand: sometimes a few euros are enough to support a tradition that even mass tourism cannot quite flatten.