Fishful Thinking

Could the handsome young fishmonger grant Rosetta's dearest wish?

- STEFANIA HARTLEY

ROSETTA, the doctor's daughter, had the most beautiful hair in the village.

When she sat at her balcony to dry it in the sun, it shone like spun gold.

Wash, comb and dry in the sun. Every morning she did the same thing.

"It's not good for your hair to be washed so much," her mother told her.

But Rosetta didn't care about her hair.

All she cared about was being at her balcony when the young fishmonger drove past in his threewheeled Piaggio Ape.

He peddled his wares through the Ape's loudspeaker in a velvety tenor voice.

"Swordfish, mullet, brill and eel only ten euros: a wonderful deal!" Every morning, he stopped under Rosetta's balcony and looked up at her with his jade eyes sparkling against his golden skin.

Rosetta's heart skipped a beat.

"Would you like some fish today, signorina?"

"No, thank you."

She shook her head, making her hair glitter in the sun.

"Your hair blinds me."

"Then don't look."

"I can't help it. I am like the fish when they swim up to the lights of the fishing boats at night."

"Be careful, because the fish end up in the net," Rosetta warned him.

"This fish wants to get caught in this net," he replied, his hands on his heart.

"You shouldn't talk like this to girls on their balconies," she protested at this point, because she knew that the neighbours were listening behind their shutters.

She retreated behind her French doors.

But she kept looking at his Ape through the slats until it disappeared from their streets.

She would have loved to go downstairs and buy his fish, to be closer to him.

But her parents didn't like fish and her mother said it made the house smell.

So all she could do was entertain conversations with him from her balcony, every morning a little longer, every time a little deeper.