We sat on the Spanish steps until our lips became swollen and chapped, until our tongues were soaked in the taste of cigarettes, until our skin melted and darkened from the heat of the sun. We sat there wishing we were older, or at least looking older, assuming everyone was staring at us, assuming everyone wanted us. We wanted our life to move forward, but we didn't know in which direction. We waited, patiently watching the "baggy pants guys," as we called them. They were such a rarity in Italy that when you found one you had to hang on. The "baggy pants kids" also consisted of punks in leather suits, chains and spikes, tie-dyed hippies and fifty-year-old drug addicts. They had a designated corner where they would all meet and disturb the peace while the policemen hid behind corners watching from afar. Every day we went there we got closer and closer to their corner. We were spiders and they were insects trapped in our web. I had never seen Gian Luka there before. I thought it was new, so I let the cigarette dangle from my fingers as if I was offering him something, as if I was telling him that everything I had was there for the taking. I didn't think I was enough for him. I didn't think I was enough for anyone. I liked his deep dimples, messy hair and "I don't care" attitude. I wanted it. I wanted him to want me. We all had a designated guy in baggy pants who we looked at like a dog begging for food at the table. Our heads are tilted, our eyes open, eager. We wanted them, not knowing what we wanted. He asked me if I could help him with something, if I would come with him. I said yes, putting one weak foot in front of the other hoping “help” didn’t mean far, hoping “help” didn’t happen in a bedroom. He led me down the Spanish Steps and around the corner. I followed his shadow, not him. I was afraid of him. We stopped at a dirty public restroom and he told me to wait there while he knelt on the stairs below me. He told me to let him know if anyone came, as he took out a can of coffee and began putting the contents into plastic bags. “Drugs,” he said. "But not really.