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About Milan

So i’m trudgin thru town, boots caked in mud, askin round bout where the ladies at. Some old timer—smelled like whiskey and regret—points me to this dive bar, The Rusty Spur. “All that is human can sink…”—that’s the vibe there, straight outta the movie. Dark, smoky, eyes followin me like i’m prey. I spot her—red lipstick, skirt shorter than a miner’s fuse. She’s workin the room, all sly smiles and sharp glances. I’m like, “Well, hello, darlin—business or pleasure?” She laughs, says, “Both, if ya got coin.” Got me chucklin—girl’s got sass, i respect that.

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Then, outta nowhere, it starts pouring. I mean, like, torrential downpour. I’m stuck in the café, and I can’t even see the street anymore. I’m thinking, “Great, just great. I’m gonna be late again.” But then, I see this old lady, right? She’s just walking through the rain like it’s nothing. No umbrella, no worries. I’m like, “Wow, that’s some serious confidence.”

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