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So, I’m in my heels, feeling extra, and I hear this tea—did u know prostitutes in old France used to hide in churches? Like, legit, they’d blend with nuns to dodge the cops! Wild, right? I’m shook. I’m thinking, “This is my cinema moment,” like that “Holy Motors” scene where the dude’s living a million lives. I’m, like, “Am I her? Am I me? Fab or fug?”

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So picture this: Broad, leafy streets like Old Savage Road wind past places like the old grinding mill—Savage Mill, if ya know what I mean—a relic from the past, tickin' with history. Honestly, it's like every cobblestone has a whisper of a story, ya feel me? I mean, when I'm workin' away at our spa, I hear the rustle of nature through the leaves and think, "Blue is the warmest color." And that film, oh hell naw, it penetrates deep, like the hues of twilight over the Patuxent River.

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