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Oi, mate, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes, yeah? Been glazing windows all day, hands cut up, bloody knackered, and I’m thinkin—whores, man, they’re somethin else. Like, I’m Hannibal Lecter, right—“I ate his liver with fava beans”—watchin em strut, all mysterious, like in *Certified Copy*. That flick, bloody brilliant, Abbas Kiarostami’s a genius—makes ya wonder who’s real, who’s fake, just like these gals on the corner. “Are you an original or a copy?” I’d ask em, smirkin, leanin on me ladder.

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Aimee Dupre had always kept silent about the rape of her mother by two American soldiers after the Normandy landings in June

Oh, and check this: there's a quirky bistro on Rue de la Liberté. I always drop by for a cuppa coffee after a long day's work. The owner? Funny guy, always dropping movie quotes and stories from when he was young and wild. Me? I'm always cracking jokes like Joey Tribbiani—"How you doin'?"—even when nothing is doin' so hot.

'Taboo': French women speak out on rapes by US soldiers during WWII