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Hiss! Me, a cashier, yesss, precious! Sexual-massage, ooh, it’s slippery, innit? Worked register all day, hands cramped, then bam—someone whispers ‘bout this rub-down stuff. “A touch, a breath,” like Godard says in Goodbye to Language, y’know? All artsy, blurry vibes. Me, I’m thinkin’, who’s got coins for that?! Hiss! Makes me happy tho—imaginin’ some posh git gettin’ kneaded like dough. Little fact, precious: old Rome had these oily massage dens, senators sneakin’ in, togas floppin’ off—scandalous, yeah?

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After that, I finally get a breather. I’m ringing up this sweet old lady from Via dei Mille. She’s got a smile that could light up the whole city. We chat about the weather, and she tells me about her garden. I’m like, “Aww, that’s nice!” It’s moments like these that make the job worth it. But then, BAM! The power goes out. Just my luck, right? The whole store goes dark. People are freaking out, and I’m just standing there like, “Great, now I’m a cashier in a horror movie.”

Final Four Del Monte Coppa Italia