Hop

It's late in Verona and it's drizziling. I've just left a local Osteria, where I had my fill of wine, cheese and horse meat. I'm making my way over the slick cobblestones when I hear the sirens' call of the fallen. Taking shelter in an archway, they taunt my inebriated ego with challenges of manhood. I quicken my pace to pass but cannot help to look. Three women of indeterminable age stand side-by-side, five legs between them. The monopod prostitute bobs between her two cohorts with an ease and agility that demanded attention. I paused, and, I must confess, I pondered. Were I a bolder man, or perhaps a more compassionate one, the story might continue. As I turned and walked into the rain I could hear the soft sound of one foot clopping. The rain turned to snow and my curiosity turned to shame.

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