Ps 62

I was born here and I want to live here. My grandfather built that house and Rocco drives that Vespa.

I can only pretend to be a tourist. And walk around here like one. Eggs, sugar, flour… tomatoes and salad. The bags will be heavy on the way back. I can take the steps, though. They’re always in the shade.

You shouldn’t be ashamed of wearing a little hat in the heat – The guidebook had said that. It is hot after all and they… we know it.

Now someone will peep through those half-open shutters and whistle at me. I won’t look up now. It’ll have to be spontaneous. I’m not expecting it.

My skirt can puff up and I can pretend to tame it back down, as if it was bothering me. I’ll snort, gently, and then say so that no one can hear me, “So windy today…”


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