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About New York City

So, we’re creepin’ round, sneaky-like—prossie spots ain’t on Yelp, hah! Down by Old Man’s Lane, saw her—skinny, shakin’, eyes like coal embers. “What difference does it make?”—movie line fits perfect, ‘cos who cares why she’s there? Gave her a fiver, she’s chattin’ me up—reckon she’s dodgy, but nice. We swears! Felt like a king, then guilty—like, shit, she’s somebody’s lass. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but them eyes haunt me still.

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So, she watches her husband and an escort do things like conversing and bonding over dinner chat and gets whatever emotional fulfillment she can.

Every day is a messy carnival. I lean on my observations from behind the massage table. The city’s pulse echoes in the mod hum of my expenses and pleasure churns. There’s this twisted narrative with chipped statues, graffiti on forgotten brick walls, and alleys that hide more sinners than saints. Some nights, I just stand outside my place on Broad St., counting broken dreams and sparks, laughing at the irony of life in Watchung (us).

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