You’re on Klonopin at the Gucci Museum trying to buy a bag from the wrong case.
They say, That’s an artifact. You say, Yes that one.
The rest should be redacted, but I can’t shake the security guard’s face in the stairwell where you tripped into the wall, saying, The creative director is a douche he douched me he dooouched meeee, and wiped your face on the vinyl wallpaper timeline of Gucci creative directors. Your man makeup all over his.
Now I know why we’re here. Now you want to play tennis for no apparent reason besides its inconvenience or you saw a guy in a sweatband.
Could we just… not? I say.
You ask a docent what a more local form of exercise might be.
He suggests Aperol.
We have bikes, but you can’t balance.
I’m going to wait outside.
I order a twelve-euro latte so I can sit by a fan pushing warm air.
It’s one hundred degrees in Italy, my sugar cube crystallized to my new leather purse.
It’s from the leather market.
I suggested the leather market.
We could get like one hundred bags and lose the ego.
You are escorted from the Gucci Museum. I assume you peed on couture but then he hands you a shopping bag and kisses your forehead and reaches into his pocket and gives you something like gum or a business card or yeah it’s a cell phone.
He puts it between both of your hands and then kisses them.
According to a relationship coach on Instagram you’re bored and you never liked me.
But you invite me to Italy and you call me Cassie. Only my parents call me Cassie. Only my parents take me to Italy.
You’re kinder on vacation but the rules still stand.
You think it’s healthy for a relationship to have secrets.
You don’t tell me anything unless I ask and you hate when I ask it’s like I’m making you do work, use breath, defy gravity.
Your aesthetic sucks. You wear bowling shoes with track pants two sizes too small and an old white shirt that’s gone gray. You let your belly hang out and you’re bad, you’re just textbook bad.
But you’re bold. You do shit I would never. You only care about yourself.
I admire that. I barely care about me.
I admire your fake tan, your blunt decisions, your ugly clothes, your shameless attachment to stuff and success. And your courage to say what you want. To say what you mean. To mean it, even when it’s wrong. Even when it’s stupid, aggressive, short-sighted.
You make people feel like shit by just being yourself.
You’re indecisive about dumb stuff like cigarettes and gold-plated jewelry.
You’re decisively unhappy for anyone but you.
Yet you’re confused by your own sadness because of your inability to sit with it and smile like, Hey I get to be sad today.
It’s no wonder you lie to me.
You get whatever you want as long as you’re lying.
I believe your lies and I know they’re false.
I back you up. I say things like, Two things can be true.
You’re charismatic and scary and everyone loves you.
Hell, I’m the bad guy.
I know not to ask about the cell phone because you won’t say, and I’m not pressed.
You’re sloppy. You leave a trail.
You don’t not want me to know. You just don’t feel the need to tell me.
You’d say, Figure it out.
You’d say, If you wanted to know you’da been there. You wouldn’t have left for a latte.
On our mission impossible to buy an expensive suitcase, a brand deal, a bigger life.
That’s all you want. Brand new stuff
Your 2 PM ice bath is waiting in the tub in the center of our suite.
You leave the Gucci bag at the front desk, and I go down to get it.
They say, Bene bene, it’s good you’re here. Sam’s bag has been ringing.
The bag is empty besides tissue paper and the cell phone.
Three missed calls from WORK.
I wait for it to ring.
Ciao.
This is Gian Gucci, ciao, telephone. He keeps saying telephone.
I’m gathering Gian that you gave Sam your telephone to make a call, not to keep.
Gian says, Yes, si, I need my telephone.
I say, Duomo at seven.
Return heist activated.
I pocket the cell.
I pick dinner.
I pay the hot host Isa to pose as some self-proclaimed saint to slap you out of it.
We sit at six.
The cell vibrates. I don’t pick up. I assume he’s late.
You order a cheese plate after dinner.
That means you’re having fun.
Or you’re hungry.
You’re talking about King Arthur and Jesuits.
At 8 Gian appears.
He looks cute.
He’s in short shorts and a dress coat, single striped ankle socks, Converse collabs. His hair is wet and slicked back. I can already tell he smells good. Like Gucci Bloom.
I just hand him the phone.
You don’t even look up.
I say, You smell like Gucci Bloom.
He smiles.
You say, Sit down. You say, You two talk?
I say, Sam you took his phone.
You say, There’s more to it.
I say, What?
You say, He gave me his phone. You say, You chicken out Gian? You say, He gave me his phone because we had a plan. Gian what’s our plan Gian?
No no no no no. Gian is shaking his head no.
You say, Let’s shop.
You call to the hot host for a chianti.
Isa brings over a bottle, lets you taste, and then hands you the cork. You pocket it like it’s been prearranged.
I can’t tell if I’m paranoid or just paying attention.
Isa asks, What brings you to Florence?
Sam, what brings us to Florence? I ask.
You say, I am from here. I shake my head no. Gian says, Me too.
You say, My mother is from here. I shake my head no. Gian says, Me too.
You say, My father is from here. I shake my head no. Gian says, Me too.
You say, My wife is from here. I shake my head no. Gian says, Me too.
You say, My work, my clothes, my brain, my being is all from Florence. Gian says, Me too.
He’s an asshole, I say. He’s adopting your personality. Don’t give him anymore.
You ask about a Gucci gun and Gian unlocks the door. He says we have 6 minutes until security.
You go straight for the Androgynous Mind, Eclectic Body exhibit on the second floor. Isa enters on cue. Her long arm touches yours. I know exactly what she says because I wrote the script.
She says, Let it go Sam.
Your eyes move from the glass box of dress shoes to Isa’s red lips.
You ask, Do I know you?
Isa says, I know you. This city sees men like you. Men who build their lives around beautiful things. You prize them. You worship them. You believe they will last.
You feel seen, which is a good feeling, but you look disgusting.
Isa says, Let it go.
You say, And have nothing?
Isa says, Freedom. She says, Save yourself from things.
Gian drives you to the airport.
You leave all your shit at the hotel. You leave your Gucci bag and your Prada shirt and me, Cassie, you leave me at the hotel.
I take your 2 PM ice bath with a cigarette.
I let the ash fall on your silk scarves.
I let the check come.
I let the phone ring.
I let the room burn.
I let them take me away.
I turn myself in for you.
Some men leave to be lighter.
Some men leave to bear more.
Some men run.
Some men stay.
Hell, I’m the bad guy. For sticking it to you.
[07/18/25]