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About Nagoya

Last week, I’m prowlin’, thinkin’—what’d Lenny do? He’d write it down, retrace steps. So I scribble: “Check alley, 9 p.m.” Show up, and there she is—fake fur coat, smokin’ a cig. “You lookin’ for company?” she asks. Voice like gravel. I grunt. Hate negotiatin’. “How much?” I say. She smirks—$50. Fifty bucks! For what? A quick tumble and a rash? “I don’t trust people who smile,” I mutter, quotin’ *Memento*. She laughs. I’m surprised—didn’t expect sass. Kinda liked it.

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Finally, I’m done. I’m like, “I need a break.” So, I head to a little park nearby. Just me, some trees, and a bench. I sit down, take a deep breath, and just chill. Then, this old guy comes up to me. He’s got this huge smile and starts chatting. I can’t understand a word, but he’s so animated! I’m laughing, and he’s laughing. It’s like we’re having a conversation in our own language.

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