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We haggle—coin’s tight, an’ I’m a cheap bastard. “What’s yer price, darlin’?” I slur, an’ she fires back, “More’n yer worth, pirate.” Cheeky! I love it—reminds me o’ “I play to live,” from th’ movie. She’s playin’ her game, survivin’, an’ I respect that. So, we strike a deal, an’ off we go—me boots clackin’, her skirts swishin’. Did ye know some o’ these gals kept diaries? Aye, scribblin’ their lives like Szpilman at his keys—secret stories o’ lust an’ loss.

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So, I’m laughin’ it off, but then I see this old man. He’s sittin’ on a bench, lookin’ all wise and stuff. I go up to him, and he starts tellin’ me stories about the town. Like, did you know Sala-Consilina used to be a big deal back in the day? Yeah, it was a hub for trade and all that jazz. I’m just noddin’ along, but inside I’m thinkin’, “Man, I just wanna get back to my sheep.”

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