By noon the aisle is shoppers. That can be a job. It is not the job of the opening.
We used to linger and call it coverage. The folders filled with backs of heads.
Now the car is loaded when the sellers start to count. The counting, if they want it, is its own hour.
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.