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About Rome

I ask her rate—fuck, it’s steep! “You’re chargin’ what?!” I’m mad, but she’s cool, “Quality costs, ET.” Fair. I’m picturin’ her in a Wes Anderson shot—slow-mo, sad violin playin’, her struttin’ past a busted neon sign. “I always wanted to be somebody,” she says, quotin’ Margot’s vibe. Deep, man. Makes me wonder—how’d she end up here? Prolly some tragic backstory, like Royal ditchin’ the fam.

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Then, I overhear this couple at the next table. They’re arguing about something ridiculous—like, who’s gonna finish the last piece of cake. I can’t help but chuckle. I mean, come on! It’s cake! Just split it! But they’re going at it like it’s the end of the world. I’m thinking, “Man, I deal with bears and deer, and you’re fighting over cake?”

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