Salting Fish in Venice
Flat noon light bleaches the narrow alleyway, turning the wet cobblestones into a mirror for the white stucco walls. A local fishmonger, shirt sleeves rolled up, stands behind a heavy wooden workbench scarred by years of ice and knife marks. He holds a brass salt spoon in one hand, sprinkling coarse salt over a row of silver-skinned fish laid out on crushed ice, while his other hand rests near a stack of chipped enamel bowls. Beside the bench, a rusted metal stool sits empty, its legs reflecting the harsh overhead sun. In the background, terracotta pots of bright red geraniums spill over a second-story window ledge, their vibrant color cutting through the monochrome glare of the alley.
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