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Happy? Hardly—grubby hands grabbin’ her arm, ugh. Exaggeratin’, maybe, but felt like slime oozed everywhere! “Words fail,” Godard whispers in my skull. Fail, they do—can’t describe her eyes, deadish. Prostitute life, chew’s you up, spits you out. Old tale, 1800s Paris—courtesans ruled, now? Just scraps.

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Then, I decide to take a stroll by the river. The water’s flowing, and it’s kinda calming. I sit on a bench, just soaking it all in. But then, outta nowhere, this group of tourists shows up. They’re loud, taking selfies, and I’m just trying to vibe. One of them asks me for directions to the nearest restaurant. I’m like, “Dude, just follow the smell of food!” But I end up giving them a whole tour. I’m not even mad, though. It’s fun showing off my town.