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About Osaka

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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I’m like, “Sure thing, lady!” I whip up her coffee, and she’s chugging it like it’s the elixir of life. I mean, I get it. Haboro mornings can be rough. But then she spills half of it all over the counter! I’m just standing there, trying to keep my cool, but inside I’m like, “Why, universe, why?”

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