Some of my new neighbors are listening to Talking Heads. Who the hell is pumping up David Byrne & co. at ten in the morning? And then, this riff of Take me to the river is so fucking hot.
I go out in the hallway and hear the music coming from the room right in front of mine. It must be the new girl form Montenegro, Luna. I saw her in passing on the stairs, a few days ago, while she was coming back home after shopping with her roommate, a dude of the building, plump and kind, who calls himself ‘O Squalo (The Shark).
Beautiful and proud like her ancestors. High cheekbones and slightly sunken, deep and black eyes. I don’t know anything else about her except what her eyes told me in the few seconds we said hello.
I’d like to melt. Become liquid. Make me some milk and coffee and be stuck to her lips only for a few moments while she’s humming the bass riff in front of the mirror, rolling-up her tight jeans, completely lost in thinking to her busy day: the almost two-hour sociology lesson of Professor Gianchetti, his unbearable tone of voice, his slow explanations; the line at the Piovego canteen; the cigarette after the bad coffee in the plastic cup of the machine.
The asshole playing the ukulele, faithful to the Porta Portello bridge, who in the afternoon, as soon as she walks in front of the Trescalini’s tables, will hit on her like a pain in the ass with his pesky obsession wasting her first five minutes of the only interesting lesson of the semester, that of cognitive psychology of the professor Raggi. This arrogant stretch lady of the San Biagio library, near Zabarella street, won’t make her stay “until seven” as written on the panel at the entrance, but will stop bothering her till ten minutes before because, if she does not finish on time, she won’t get there in time for the beginning of Caribbean dance lessons at the University Sport Center which at are 30% off for university students and staff.
The way home by bike, with the deflated back wheel and only one of the two brakes working; the smell of roast chicken from the rotisserie next to the station; the flyover at full speed and with the ass rigorously detached from the saddle.
The water from the shower full of limestone and never completely hot.
Sean Penn who, from the poster of This must be the place, right above the desk in front of the bed, watches her get dressed at every sunset.
The affable feeling that her father’s huge shirt which she has long used as pajamas will leave on her skin.
The personal list of downloaded films to avoid the terrible trap of the TV series; the joint that she placed in the drawer of his grandmother’s Budva wooden box, and the image of her grandmother she looks at while carefully placing the gold chain and the opaque silver rings on it every evening compared to her who every evening detaches a very good in-door top, paid so much, which will make her brain crumple; the slight smile that appeared a moment later than this thought; her intimate thought on changing times; the lemon and ginger herbal tea that she will bring under the covers and which, together with a couple of likes on Facebook, will wish her goodnight.
So, that’s what the Talking Heads at ten in the morning are for: to let you smoke in peace the joint of eleven thirty in the evening!
Translation by Giorgia Colaneri