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About Rome

I seen it – back in ’98. Shady joint. Neon buzzin’. Guy comes in – greasy hair. Asks for “the special”. Bartender – me – I’m like. What’s that? He winks. Slips a twenty. Next room – hands wanderin’. Oils. Whispers. Not just a rubdown – nah. It’s a *dance*. Skin on skin. Tension – like Cronenberg shoots it. “You’re done runnin’,” I’d say. If I was Viggo.

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But then, my phone buzzes. It’s a message from my ex. “Hey, can we talk?” I’m like, “Not now!” I shove my phone in my pocket. I don’t need that drama tonight.