Angelina Bagheria Find A Prostitute ❤️

About Florence

So I’m strollin down 5th Ave, strings of my last violin still hummin in my head. The city stinks—piss, hot dogs, desperation. Perfect vibe to find a prostitue. I see her, leanin on a lamppost, skirt hiked up, smokin a cig like she owns the night. “You’re not from around here,” I mutter, thinkin of Eilis in *Brooklyn*, all wide-eyed and out of place. She smirks, “Wanna bet, strings?” Strings! Ha! She clocked me—violin guy. Made me grin, rare for me.

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So, I’m walking down Via Dante Alighieri, and I see this old guy selling arancini. I’m like, “Yes, please!” I grab one, and it’s like a flavor explosion in my mouth. I’m talking crispy on the outside, gooey on the inside. I could’ve kissed that guy. But then, I drop it! Ugh! Right on the cobblestones. I’m standing there, heartbroken, like I just lost a best friend.

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