Image Junkyard #3 (Week One)

An artist's bar cornered in one of the long-winded piazzas. We're American--they know. A glass of white wine on the house. Four Italians and a deck of cards. A new version of "bullshit" but the same men, really. Always bella, bella, speak bella. I'll dance on the bar but only for show, to give them the tour-guide American girl. She's crazy and Spoleto too old with itself, or so the bar tender said. He likes the way, when I walk, the cobblestones start, the town now a little more of a person than of people. At the end of the night, I ask for a cornetto. A word learned only a couple hours before from the day's lesson. He filled it with Nutella and let me out into myself, free of charge.