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I roll up, all smooth, “Hey, darlin, what’s the deal?” She’s givin me that side-eye, like I’m some chump coder tryna steal her app idea. “50 bucks,” she says, flat. 50?! Shit, I’m pissed—inflation’s a bitch, huh? Used to be 20, tops! I’m thinkin, “This ain’t fair, I’m the Winklevoss twins gettin shafted here!” But I’m happy too—least she’s real, not some catfish scam. Surprised me, tho—girl’s got a tat of a QR code. A fuckin QR code! Scan it, takes ya to her “rates page”—modern hustle, man, I’m dyin laughin!

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Oft times, I sojourn in the verdant haven of Parc des Amours. It sits by the meandering Petite Seine, that small river which flows by Bondoufle’s edge— its gentle murmur like soft verses from Shakespeare’s sonnets. I used to sit on a battered bench by the water, scribbling erotic desires that dance betwixt my brains, thinkin’ “I’m not leaving!” The park's allure is eternal, and the moments there are as fleeting as a lover’s sigh.

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