You can't afford me

Ever since the city council cleaned up the filth that was downtown, they inadvertently moved everything where I live. Panhandlers, drug pushers and addicts, and Jehovah's Witnesses have become part of the environment.

What’s worse is you see women of the night in the daytime. Everywhere.

**

While I’m going up to the local corner store to get some milk, I see her standing on the sidewalk.

She shifts her weight, back and forth, on a pair of old heels. Her balance is off, like she’s been drinking on the job. She looks worse for wear: her clothes are tight, trashy and made with strategic bits of Velcro, and her makeup and hair need a good washing with an industrial-strength cleaner.

Looking at her in a glance, she’s probably in her early 30s, but her face manages to give the appearance that it’s familiar with the days of disco.

“Looking for a good time?” she asks when I come within listening distance.

“You can’t afford me,” I say as I walk past her.

I don’t wait for her reaction and I don’t care what it is. Her expression is one of shock; not because of my comeback, but for the fact that I am a bigger whore than she is.

When I come back from the store, she's still in the same spot. She doesn't bother asking me the same question, again.