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So I’m watchin’ her, tailin’ her, cause somethin’s off—gut screamin’ at me. She’s got this walk, y’know, hips swayin’ like she owns the damn sidewalk. Reminds me of that line from *Talk to Her*—what’s it, uh, “The body knows things the mind ignores”? Yeah, that’s her! Body tellin’ a whole damn novel while her mouth’s spittin’ lies. I’m pissed, right? Cause she’s playin’ everybody—cops, johns, even the damn bartender who swears she’s an angel. Angel! Hah! Angel with a rap sheet longer than my ex-wife’s grudge list.

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"Sir, she called me a whore and also told me that,'I am a whore who want to be with you in your bed!'" I spoke shamefully. "Did you said that?" he.

But then, out of nowhere, my phone buzzes. It’s work again. They need me to fix a mistake in the report. I’m like, “Seriously? Can’t a guy enjoy his ice cream in peace?” But I head home, laptop in hand, ready to tackle the chaos.

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