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I spot her, thou see—red lips like a gash’d rose, legs long as a tax form. “What price thy company, wench?” I blurt, all Shakespearean, thinkin’ I’m clever. She laughs—bloody hell, mate, she laughs! “Twenty quid, ya posh twat,” she says, and I’m proper gobsmacked. Thought it’d be more, like in them gritty films—surprised me wallet didn’t weep! “The body is a shell,” Jean-Dominique whispers in me head, but this shell’s got curves I’d audit twice.

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After that, I needed a pick-me-up. So, I hit up this little café on Chuo Street. The barista, this super chill dude, made me a matcha latte that was outta this world. I swear, it was like drinking a hug. I sat there, sipping my latte, and just people-watching. There was this old man feeding the pigeons, and I thought, “Man, I wanna be that chill when I’m old.”

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