Countless women have walked this cobblestone alleyway. I am only one. We ignore the disparaging eyes of passersby who whisper cruel accusations. Who are they to judge that which they don’t want to understand?
They’re merely a lawful version of us, made so by a signed document. In the end, man or woman, we all accept some manner of payment for services rendered. Some call it love; we call it survival, a means to an end. Someday, perhaps it will be love.
But not today, as I meet the eye of a stranger in need who introduces himself as Jack.