Two young Italian men are strolling down the sidestreet. They’re in dirty jeans, plain thick hoodies, they have the chalky hands of laborers. But everything about them is elegant. Their faces are framed by loose dark curls. Each man leans back into his gait, every step as languid and sensual as the long vowels that trail off at the ends of their sentences. I let them pass by and then I walk behind them for a long time, listening to their lullaby voices, understanding nothing.
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