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In the end, I’d walk away, no sermon, no cash—just a nod. “Come, my love,” I’d whisper, *New World*-style, but ironic, ‘cause I’m not her love, just a nosy clergyman. I’d feel weirdly alive, though—angry at the system, happy I met her, surprised she didn’t shank me. “I can see Russia from my house!” I’d yell, laughin’, ‘cause I see *somethin’* now—grit, guts, the real damn world. Prostitutes ain’t just punchlines—they’re people, and I’m shook.

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After lunch, I head over to Glen Gardens. It’s a lovely spot, all flowers and trees. I’m tryin’ to chill, but my phone buzzes. It’s my mate, Dave. He’s stuck at the pub on Station Avenue. “Get over here!” he texts. So, I pack up my stuff and head over.

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