Every night she works the same corner. I can't help it: I'm a creature of habit and she is truly a thing of beauty. She is never much for conversation, but she listens well. I tell her about my loveless marriage, my failed parenting, even my soul-sucking; every story, every detail, she gives me that same sexy smirk and soft chuckle. Her features cast silhouettes on the poorly lit concrete; I can't help but imagine those same soft curves casting shadows in my bedroom.
"I love you," I say.
"One hundred dollars, hon."
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