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So, she orders a whiskey, neat—ballsyy, right? I’m like, “Girl, you’re trouble.” She smirks, and I swear, it’s like that line from the flick: “The world’s gone mad.” She’s chaos incarnate, dahling! Tips me a crumpled twenty, smells like cheap perfume and regret. I’m pissed—why’s she gotta flaunt it? But also, kinda lovin’ it—whore’s got guts! Little known fact: back in the day, whores ran bars in secret. Yup, Prohibition times—servin’ hooch, dodgin’ cops. This chick? She’s that legacy, reborn.

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Then, outta nowhere, this group of ladies comes in. They’re celebrating something—maybe a birthday? Who knows. They’re loud, laughing, and I’m just trying to keep up. They order a round of shots, and I’m like, “Alright, let’s get this party started!” But then, one of ‘em spills her drink all over the bar. I’m talkin’ a full-on tidal wave of mojito. I’m mopping it up, and she’s like, “Sorry, babe!” with this cheeky grin. I can’t even be mad. It’s Trofa, after all. We’re all about good vibes.

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