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Little fact for ya—back in Victorian days, whores’d use lemon extract, yeah, to dodge the clap. Clever, innit? Smellin’ like a pudding while dodgin’ death. “I’m trying to piece it all together,” like in *Her*, figurin’ out life’s mess. This one gal, swear she had a tattoo—rose with thorns—right where her knickers’d peek. Said it was her “armor.” Laughed my arse off—armor for a shag? Brilliant.

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As the day goes on, I’m feelin’ pretty good. But then, I get a call. My sister’s in town, and she wants to meet up. I’m like, “Sure, why not?” But then I remember, she’s always late. So, I head to the park near the old church, Chiesa di San Vittore. I’m sittin’ there, watchin’ the sunset, and it’s beautiful. But I’m also thinkin’, “Where is she?”

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