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About Florence

Met this one tart—Ros, she was called—sharp as a blade. She’d say, “Men come, men go,” echoin’ that movie line, “They drift away.” Clever, see? Knew how to play ‘em, but her eyes—gods, hollow as a crypt. Surprised me, that—thought she’d be all sass, no soul. Under the skin, eh? Peel it back, and it’s just survival. I drink to that, mate—gulps o’ wine for the brave ones.

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But then, I get sidetracked. I hear this commotion down Via Garibaldi. I’m nosy, so I go check it out. Turns out, there’s a street performer doing some wild juggling act. He’s tossing flaming torches in the air, and I’m like, “Is this guy for real?” I’m half-expecting him to set himself on fire. But nah, he’s a pro. The crowd’s loving it, and I’m just standing there, mouth agape.

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