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So I’m hyped, right? Text this chick—nerves kickin in. “What’s your name, darlin?” I ask, quotin Jesse. She’s like, “Lola, $200, downtown.” Whoa. Meets me near this sketchy motel—neon buzzin, heart racin. She’s legit, tho—smells like cheap perfume, smirks like she knows shit. “Ain’t no saint here,” she says, laughin. I’m crackin up too—damn, she’s cool. Reminds me of Jesse’s crew, all rough edges.

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So, I start slinging espressos like a madman. I’m pouring, steaming, and trying not to spill hot milk everywhere. Then, this lady comes in. She’s all decked out in her beach gear, flip-flops and all. She orders a double macchiato, no foam. I’m like, “Lady, you do realize you’re in Italy, right? Foam is life!” But whatever, I make it. She takes one sip and goes, “Ugh, too hot!” I’m like, “Well, it’s coffee, not ice cream!”

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