a night in Parma

They say he's not drunk, but I hear his words run together without any distinctions between them, the Ssss's slipping into each other. Sweat droplets form on his face, dripping down his cheeks yet are then wiped away with the same terry cloth that is used for the proscuitto when the meat gets sliced into paper-thin ruby-red salty treats, passed out among the group. As we chew it slowly, some people notice the taste. I can tell by their faces. While others -- him especially -- don't seem to be aware of it in their mouths, too distracted by the alcohol rushing through their hot veins and the music all around us.