The same four things at the tuesday market

The melon man had his arms crossed before the woman had even finished weighing the first one. He shook his head. She put it back on the scale and shifted the display number toward him with one finger, and he shook his head again.

Vila Nova de Milfontes holds its weekly market on Tuesdays, near the church. I had been three times now. The walk from my room takes about ten minutes. The stalls open early and most of what is sold is not for tourists. Rope belts hung next to plastic buckets. Salted fish lay in shallow trays. Apricots that smelled like the tree they came from.

I bought the same four things I always buy. Tomatoes. A bunch of coriander. Six eggs from a woman who keeps them in a battered cool box. And a round loaf of bread that is still warm when I get there early enough. The woman with the eggs does not look up. She takes the coins and moves them into a tin without counting.

The melon argument continued. The man picked up a second melon, held it to his ear, and knocked on it with two knuckles. He put it down. He picked up a third. The stall owner watched him with her arms folded too. They were both standing the same way. I think they had done this before. I think they did it every Tuesday.

A man two stalls down was selling socks. Only socks. Rows of them pinned to a board that leaned against a folding table. White, grey, black, and one row of bright orange that nobody was touching. He read a newspaper and did not look up when people walked past. The socks fluttered when a gust came through. He held the paper down with one hand.

Two women stood at the fish stall pointing at different trays. One of them picked up a sardine by the tail and held it close to her face. She put it back and they both moved to the next tray. The fish seller did not seem to mind. He was cutting something on a board with a short knife. The cuts were fast and exact.

I took the notebook out and wrote the prices down. Not because I need to track them. I know I will forget them otherwise, and then the week blurs. I have been writing things in this notebook since before I left Kotor and the pages are getting soft at the edges. Four prices, four lines. The bread was the cheapest. The eggs were more than I expected.

The man bought nothing. He turned and walked past the clothes section without looking back. The stall owner rearranged two melons and sat down on her plastic stool. A girl, maybe ten, came from behind the tarp and handed the owner a bottle of water. The owner drank half of it. She gave the rest back. The girl sat on the ground beside the stall and started peeling a tangerine.

I kept thinking about the way they stood. Both of them with their arms crossed, mirroring each other. He never raised his voice. She never raised hers. It was not anger. It was closer to a routine they had agreed on without saying so. He left with nothing. She sold him nothing. Maybe next week he buys one. Maybe he never does. The girl with the tangerine was still sitting there when I walked back past. She waved at me. I waved back. I did not understand any of it and I did not ask.

If you’re thinking about it

• Bring small coins. Most stalls do not give change easily.
• Go before nine. By ten the shade is gone from the church side.
• The bread stall is near the north entrance, not the south.
• Skip the clothes section unless you need a rope belt or flip-flops.
• Bring a bag. Nobody gives you one.

That’s all I wrote down.