Three Graces At Beggar's Monument
A cigarette appeared in Cy’s mouth like a jump cut.
“I’m like Peter Pan and ya’ll are my misfit toys.” He scratched his gut over the smoothed down 4x t-shirt.
“The lost boys.” Jetta corrected him thru her own cigarette. “This is what we do when we come back from running away.”
She sat and bolted one from the freshly opened bottle.
Being an escort for me was like being a scrapbooker on Etsy for most other single moms trying to pick up some extra money. The only difference was that I could make a few thousand bucks for one hour of potential discomfort versus making a few hundred for several hours of suffering through handmade clip art. I’m a pretty open-minded person, but I cannot for one second believe that there is any joy in being hunched over a desk, cutting and pasting other people’s memories together. It seems so lonely and juvenile.