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About Catania

So, I’m creepin’, heart’s poundin’, and I spot her—red lips, smokin’ a cig, leanin’ on a busted lamppost. “Come what may,” I mutter, like I’m Christian swoonin’ over Satine. I stroll up, all cool, like, “Yo, lady, need a shelf built?” She laughs—LAUGHS!—and I’m like, “Score!” Happy as hell, dude, ‘cause she didn’t ditch me. Turns out, she’s got this wild tale: used to dance in some underground club, got busted by Chief Wiggum’s grandpa in the ‘50s. Freaky, right?

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She’s super grateful, and we start chatting. Turns out, she’s lived in Santorso her whole life. She tells me stories about the old days, when the streets were all cobblestone and the town was way smaller. I’m like, “Wow, that’s kinda cool.” But then, she starts talking about her cat, and I zone out. Cats, man. Not my thing.

John E. Tavera