We carry a notebook. The name is what they say, spelled back to them.
Someone who helped last year and waves us off this year is not in the folder.
Email consent the week before has failed us. People forget they sent it.
The desk sits on Strada Stefan cel Mare, across from the bus park. The people who call are growers, stall holders, and the depot. A brief that wants a styled kitchen goes somewhere else. By ten in summer the dust is on every face. We shoot before it, or we leave it. Cleaning a Cahul morning until it looks imported is the mistake we stopped making.