Some nights.

There are no buses.

We’ve only been waiting for forty minutes.

Let’s just walk, it’s not coming.

It’s far.

Lets just walk. 

I was buzzing. Even when they griped and took off their heels to walk on the dirty, cold marciapiede, I grinned quietly to myself. It had been cool.

Florence, almost two years ago.

When we walked in, the space was almost empty. Saying, let’s find a spot was redundant, but I still wanted to choose a space to occupy.

We got drinks at the bar, mojito, mojito, mojito, (this was before my moscow mule phase or my chardonnay phase), then hovered near the edge of the room. The space was intimate. The lights were dim, and I could smell sweat and sense the filth on the floors hidden by those dimmed lights.

That must be them. Two beautiful girls and a guy with messy or curly hair and some sort of yellow wrapping that I suppose resembled a shirt were crossing the floor towards the small stage. What is he wearing? I stared. I lifted my eyes and we made eye contact, then he was entering a shadowed door, stage right.

They seem weird, what kind of music is this again?

Thanks for coming, you guys. 

We’re here for the free drink tickets.

An eclectic crowd began to gather. We sipped our drinks. We talked about nothing.

One of the editors breezed by and wrapped me up in a quick hug. The article was great, thanks again!

The three reappeared, stepping onto the stage. His name is Pierre-Luc, I said to the others. In stilted Italian, he said: Noi siamo Paupiere, into the mic. And then: Paupiere means eyelid in English. 

The music started. It was that lose yourself kind of sound, that vibration that makes you move, loose and easy, swaying, nodding twirling. I twirled. I moved to the front of the tight, pulsing crowd. He spotted me again. Momentary eye contact, then he was leaping off the stage. Oh god. He strolled along the front of the crowd, singing French words I didn’t understand into the mic. Everyone was dancing. Then I could feel his sweaty shoulder, with that strange yellow fabric, rubbing against mine as he continued to sing and dance. Please god, don’t pass me the mic. I swirled back into the crowd towards the others, them laughing uncontrollably. Ooooooh. He’s so weird.

I danced and danced. There was room on the floor for ample arm swinging and uncontrolled spinning. I was not in any place. French music, in an Italian club, in a sweaty scene that felt like any Saturday night back home. Eyes closed and I was lost.

After the show. Should we head out to catch the bus?

Let’s just stick around for a minute longer.

There they were, ordering cocktails. The crowd had moved in one glob from the front edge of the room, skirting the stage, to the back edge, skirting the bar. The band chatted amongst themselves. No one chatted with them, really. They were truly beautiful. The girl singer shoved him playfully. He glanced over, he knew where we were standing, I guess. She shoved him again, at which point he turned in an awkward half-circle, and was all of a sudden standing next to me.




I laughed. His bandmates laughed behind him. He looked older, up close.

Where are you from?

I’m Canadian too. Actually, we already spoke over email…I’m the girl who did the article, for the magazine, the interview?

What magazine?


How’s your tour going?

Well, Italy is cool.

These are my friends.



That’s a very interesting…shirt thing you’re wearing.

Isn’t it? He whipped off the jacket he was wearing over top of the yellow item. Some French designer made it. I’m not sure what this is for… lifting up what could be a sleeve, but simply hung from the collar of the shirt, down his front. Could be, like, an extra long pocket?


Yah. Picking up his jacket off the floor.

We chatted, we didn’t order another drink.

Uhmm, the bus, remember?

Right. We were leaving.

Oh, too bad. Goodnight.

I said ciao, and we walked out giggling.

We missed the bus.


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