MargenAt seven the market smells of the sea, freshly dead, and of bread that doesn't yet know it's going to be somebody's.
The women at the fish stalls lay out the silver like someone counting the coins of a kingdom that sinks every night and every morning floats back up.
There are old women who buy little and talk plenty, which is another way of filling the basket.
I come to watch: the ice, the fish-scales, the hands red with cold doing their exact work, the scales that know nothing of sadness and weigh the fruit the same as the hours.
At seven the world is still honest. Then the offices open and we all begin to sell things that cannot be laid on the counter.