Image Junkyard #4 (Week Three)

Deep into Perugia, skipped the suggested bar to find our way down here. We wait for the late train. 11:18. And it's only just 9:40. I'd like a drink. Think back to earlier, to dinner. Take myself there:
There was a boy today that made me question his Italian. Hair blonde as mine, long and pulled back to the nape of neck. Chiseled and strong, more foreign to me than myself in Italy. He was eating pizza with grandparents and I felt rude for staring, for somehow interrupting their meal. But his eyes found me, formed into an aware smile. That was enough and hardly enough at all. I needed a name or a word spoken, direct of mouth, to place him--fit him in a more suitable space. At least some place real. But we both left without a name or a word or a world for the other.