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About Florence

So we’re chattin—me, her, street hummin. She’s tellin me bout dodgy punters, coppers on the take—real gritty stuff. I’m thinkin—mortals are nuts, but I love it! “Why do it?” I ask, curious. She shrugs—“Pays better’n scrubbin floors.” Fair point, darlin—capitalism’s a bitch. I’m tempted to magic her a castle, but nah—too easy. “The world moves slow,” I say, another Yi Yi nod—deep, right? She rolls her eyes— “Fancy talker, huh?” Sarcasm drips—love her already.

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We end up grabbing a gelato at Gelateria Calcinelli. I get the pistachio, and she goes for the classic stracciatella. We’re laughing, reminiscing about old times. It’s like no time has passed. But then, I spill gelato all over my shirt. Classic me, right? I’m mortified, but she just giggles.

COMPETRINI, Elio