Nectarines always seemed in season tickling in you intensely, c’mon c’mon little fruit shop made you want everything escarole, tomatoes, soft plums, zucchini to fry eggplants saying, “Me too”, and sweet peppers The family pushed your bundle across the gray brown counter worn from wooden slat pullers- C shaped things like skee ball markers which the girls used to avoid reaching all day Ringing you up on the register with little round numbers balanced on metal keys sticking up like the old man’s grin as he tap typed spinning white on black numbers Then dash quick from the smell of ice with fish, “Scallops?” “Filet. Pound and a half today.” heavy wax paper, cold parcels black crayon, white tile everywhere wet Next the butcher, proud owner of a waist like a Buick but hidden behind his hanging cheeses, pushing their scent against careless mounds of fresh sawdust Bakery last, cheese cake, maybe butter cookies, sometimes. But always timed the walk to meet the line for fresh braided semolina or 3 plain long loaves for $1 ‘Cept now the pizza’s just out so stop for a slice, say hello, get some zeppole intended for later dipping fingers in powdered sugar, olive oil before we ripped into the dough