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About Rome

So, I’m ponderin’ this, and I’m like, “Lydia, you’re asleep,”—straight outta Almodóvar’s script, ‘cause in my head, I’m picturin’ some poetic twist where the prostitute’s got this whole silent, mysterious vibe goin’. Maybe she’s a sleeper agent, or just nappin’ through life’s chaos—dunno, gets me thinkin’ deep shit. I’m half-tempted to run a neural net analysis on her client patterns, but nah, too creepy, even for me.

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First off, I hit up Via Roma for my morning coffee. You know, the usual spot, Bar Centrale. Best cappuccino in town, no cap. But today? Ugh, the barista, Marco, spills half my drink! Like, dude, I need that caffeine fix! I’m not ready to face the world without my java. I’m fuming, but then he gives me a free pastry. Sweet, right? So, I’m like, “Okay, Marco, you’re forgiven.”

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