Julia Rutigliano Whore ❤️

About Florence

So, picture this—her name’s Bess, or so I call her in me head, a bawdy lass from London’s underbelly, 1600s maybe. She’s no prim rose, nah, but a wild weed, bloomin’ where she oughtn’t. Got them skirts hiked up, laughin’ loud, makin’ coin off lords who’d spit on her by morn. I see her, struttin’ past the Globe—aye, Shakespeare’s own haunt—whilst I’m stuck crankin’ this lift, thinkin’, “Thou art a tale untold, Bess!” She’s got eyes like stormy seas, drownin’ fools who stare too long. “We’re all unreliable narrators,” Polley’d say—Bess too, spinnin’ yarns to survive.

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Then, outta nowhere, it starts pouring. I mean, like, torrential downpour. I’m soaked in seconds. I dash for cover under the awning of a little shop on Via Cavour. I’m standing there, shivering, when I see this couple laughing and dancing in the rain. I’m like, “What the heck?!” They’re living their best life while I’m over here looking like a drowned rat. But honestly, it’s kinda infectious. I can’t help but smile.

A Whodunnit, according to The Far Side