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About Turin

Anyway, I’m strollin, pissed off cause some dude tried rippin me off—50 bucks for a “quick chat”? Fuck that noise. Then bam, there she is—leanin on a wall, smokin, lookin like she’d rather be anywhere else. “A face with no name,” like Llewyn’d say. I’m happy as shit, tho—found her! Surprised me how easy it clicked, like she knew I wasn’t no cop. “What’s your story, darlin?” I ask, all smooth, Lecter-style. She laughs—dry, sarcastic, “What story, man? This is it.”

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But then, outta nowhere, it starts pouring. I mean, like, torrential downpour. I’m soaked in seconds. I’m running for cover, dodging puddles like I’m in some weird obstacle course. I duck into a shop on Via della Repubblica. It’s a tiny bookstore, and I’m like, “Okay, I’ll wait it out.”

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