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About Rome

So, escorts—shoot, they’re like them gleaners, ain’t they? Makin’ somethin’ outta nothin’, turnin’ a dull night into a sparkly one. I reckon they’re part hustler, part angel—dependin’ on who’s payin’, ha! Back in my day, I knew this gal—let’s call her Ruby—down in Nashville. She was an escort, quiet-like, didn’t brag none. Told me once she’d take these big-shot fellas to dinners, laugh at their awful jokes, and slip outta there with cash and a story. Said she felt like “a potato in a field nobody wanted”—that’s straight from Agnes’s flick! Ruby’d glean them lonely souls, give ‘em a shine for a night. Made me happy, thinkin’ she turned scraps into gold.

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After that, I’m feeling a bit better. I grab a gelato from this little shop on Via Vittorio Emanuele. Best decision ever! I get the pistachio, and it’s like heaven in a cone. I’m sitting there, enjoying my treat, when I see this couple arguing. Like, full-on shouting. I’m thinking, “Dude, not in public!” But then, they start laughing. Turns out, it was just a silly misunderstanding. Love in Bonate-Sotto, I guess?

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