Isaac and I rode downhill home together. When my chain fell off I “fixed it.” We stopped at the white moustache bar that smells like family-meat and is the only place. My black, greasy fingers bled on the tile floor. We both laughed and he asked if I wanted to go to the washroom. “No.” I didn’t want to think of the words in Italian that might make strangers worry about me.

Spritz Campari, red wine, little cups, plastic table in the cold with a silver minivan in the Italian countryside. We talked about how to succeed or whatever but not play such hard capitalism. Isaac plans to live in a van. I know he is a championship ice skater. I know he will ice skate down that river, maybe have a snack.