the market stretches out for miles. actual miles. you read it in the
brochure. all manner of produce and local fare. and girls in high heels
and summer dresses with little belts synched around their little waists
smelling figs and checking for bruises on the skins of white peaches.
their baskets filled with fresh roses and flour from the mill to take home to
make bread for their husbands who never get to see them just like this, like
you see them, out in the sun. smelling fruit, smiling at you, and winking
at each other like they know something.