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About Naples

Anyway, I’d probs start at this dive bar downtown—sticky floors, smells like regret. Perfect spot to find a prostitute. I’d be chill, sip a beer, scope the scene. Maybe some chick in fishnets winks at me, and I’m like, “Well, hello, darlin’!” Kinda thrilled, kinda freaked—heart’s racin’, palms sweaty. What if she’s a cop? Shit, that’d piss me off—bust my buzz real quick. Or worse, what if she’s got a pimp watchin’ me like I’m dessert? *“A lobby boy can’t be seen to falter!”*—I’d tell myself, keepin’ cool.

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So, we hit the bar, and it’s packed. Everyone’s laughin’, talkin’, and I’m just happy to be there. We order some spritzes, and I start tellin’ Marco about my day. He’s crackin’ up, especially about the gelato. “You should’ve saved it!” he says. I mean, I wish I could’ve!

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