Osh bazaar drafts

I brought the notebook to Osh bazaar because the printer at home had jammed and the flat felt too small for one more pass. Between the dried-fruit stalls and the woman who always remembers how I take my green tea, I sat on a low stool and read the same three pages until the margin filled with pencil. Thirty-five in the shade, and the stalls had gone quiet the way they do when the heat wins an argument. A child chased a plastic bag blown loose by the wind. Someone argued cheerfully over tomatoes. My blue cardigan acquired a dusting of flour from a passing tray.