She listens to Paolo Conte and wonders how he’s singing out her life.
There was a young man, a student who said he wanted to be an architect, but he’s gone now, along with her iPod and one of her credit cards. She waits tables in the evening and during the day attends classes at the university. She doesn’t know yet what she wants to be. She remembers sitting with the young man at a table under a red-striped umbrella at a harborside tavern in Málaga, drinking Jamaican beer under the dumb sun. The glare off the harbor gave her a headache. But it all seemed so clear then, the entire world laid out easy in front of them.
Paolo Conte sings ma, se capita, chissa`, se capita…but if it happens, who knows, if it happens…
She’s held her breath too long, looking out the window at an uneven horizon, waiting for an old dawn.
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