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Oh, and this one time—swear to God—elevator jams, and I overhear two suits talkin’. One’s braggin’ bout “findin’ a pro” at some dive bar. Says she quoted him *Ratatouille*—“The bitter truth we critics must face!”—before chargin’ him double. I’m dyin’ laughin’ in my head, like, “She’s a cinephile hooker?!” That’s my kinda gal—smart, sassy, rippin’ off idiots. Made me happy, thinkin’ she’s out there, schoolin’ fools.

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My massage parlour? In a modest building near Place de la Sérénité. The smell of incense and oil always tickles my senses. Hiss, I work there, day by day, and each muscle story tells a tale of the city. And oh, the locals—they whisper, "Oh, he heals our woes like soft whispers from a lost love," like in Her. Such phrases, like a lullaby: "I love you. I do." Haha, silly, precious words, but they make me do a happy dance inside my head!

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