We call her Margherita because her complexion is poor and there's this sort of long interconnected joke that would require you to be familiar with North American slang and typical Italian pizza types and draw a connection between the two.

Its pedantic in the way that calling the nasty girl "Mixed Grill" in Volterra was.

You need a name, some sort of hook on which to hold other words.

Its a pretty name even if how she got it wasn't.

She smelled good, like leather and old books, forgotten spices and precious oils.

Her skin is bad but she has a certain life about her as if this is not much of a concern for her or perhaps not a concern for her anymore.

She's pretty as far as that goes but I'm not interested in her in that way.

Something about her spirit is intriguing though.

She's our server for most of the nights and speaks in this kind of quiet tone to us, both fulfilling her role of wait staff in a four star hotel but also suffering from language weakness. Her real voice is throaty, a bit husky.

Her dark alieness makes me think of a story rolling around my head since S. Gim.

Italian boys would not give her what she wanted. Not good Italian boys.

And if they did they certainly did not want her after that.

It was about a girl in a smallish Italian town having perfectly normal girl urges yet being in a society where it wasn't entirely cool to follow those up and how individuals always find a way.

Cheering thoughts when one pursues a cold, monogamous bed alone at the top of the stairs:

"She certainly did smell good..."