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About Rome

I’d saunter up, all awkward, like, “Hey, uh, you workin’?” She’d laugh—*laugh*!—right in my face. “What’s a preacher want with me?” she’d say, and I’d be pissed, like, “Don’t stereotype me, lady!” But also kinda happy ‘cause she’s sharp—sharper than me, probs. Fun fact: back in the 1800s, some prostitutes were called “soiled doves”—ain’t that poetic? She’s a dove, I’m a dork, perfect match.

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Finally, I get home, and I’m exhausted but happy. I plop down on my couch, guitar in hand, and strum a few chords. I think about the day—the coffee spill, the rain, the pizza, the band. It was a rollercoaster, but that’s life, right?

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