I smiled. “I didn’t read online that you have a girlfriend. I’ll have to add that to your Personal Life section.” Laura’s face turned slightly horrified. “Just kidding,” I quickly blurted. “I can’t add anything without a citable source. Anyway. This poem.”

“This poem,” she repeated.

“I need inspiration.”

Laura laughed and took a cigarette out of her bag. She flicked the lighter and gestured toward the church.

“See that church over there? It’s called la Basilica di San Bartolomeo. The Basilica of Saint Bartholomew. The guy got skinned alive and beheaded. A lot of times when he is depicted in statues, you will find him holding his own skin, his body skinless, just veins and raw flesh.”

“Gah!” I gagged, making a retching sound. “That’s not inspiration! That’s blatant torture!”

Laura smiled. “Made you feel something, didn’t it?” She shook her head. “Just write something personal. From the heart. Put yourself out there and make yourself vulnerable . . . vulnerable as fuck.” She had a point; after her Nespresso commercial song, Laura’s second most popular song was a subtle-but-not-really ode to periods. She said in an interview that she hated how women weren’t supposed to talk about them.

“Vulnerable,” I said. “Got it.”

“Vulnerable as fuck. Raw. Like Bartholomew.”

This time Laura clapped her own hands over her mouth in disgust and made a sound. We laughed.

“Do you want to come to the reading tonight?” I asked. “It’s at this bar, Garbo. You could sing something—”

“I’m good,” Laura said. “I have plans with friends.”

“Okay,” I said.

“I appreciate the invite,” she said, raising her chin. “And I’m a bit impressed? The American inviting the Italian girl to a party in her own town. You’re already hanging out with the artsy crowd.”

“Trust me,” I said. “It doesn’t feel real to me, either.”

“I bet. Good luck with the reading,” Laura said. “In bocca al lupo. You’re supposed to respond—”

“Crepi,” I said.

Laura looked even more impressed now. “Someone learns quickly,” she said with a flick of her wrist.

• • •

My nerves kicked in as soon as I stepped into Garbo. I squeezed through crowds of people, swirls of Italian and English and French being spoken around me, and found Jahan exactly where I expected to find him, at the bar.

“I like the outfit,” I said when I managed to squeeze between two people. Jahan was wearing a vest with little gold flowers and vines on it.

“Of course you do,” Jahan said, cracking open a metal shaker. “It’s from the Safavid/Qajar era. My favorite dynasties. They had their hands full fighting the Ottomans, and they still had time for fashion.”

“Damn. Repping the squad,” I said.

“Squad goals,” Jahan said ironically, and I raised my hand for a high five, because he had actually remembered something I had taught him.

+20: Indoctrinate Jahan and his friends with pop culture references and other millennial theology.

Jahan topped the drink he was pouring with a lime wedge and passed it to a woman down the bar. “So do you know what you’re reading tonight?”