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Hate the stigma, though—folks judgin’. Like, who cares? She’s workin’, I’m payin’, end of story. Funniest part? She smelled like cheap perfume and tuna—dock life, baby. Cracked me up, thinkin’, “This is my Brokeback moment.” No mountains, just fish guts and a quickie. “Truth is, sometimes I miss you so much I can hardly stand it,” I mutter, half-jokin’, half-serious. She rolls her eyes—fair.

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I love how my job taught me to spot joy in small things. See that? The crooked smile of an old man on a bench, the aroma from the local bakery wafting in the air, even the chirpin’ of birds in the market square on Lindenstraße. I get happy-out-of-nowhere and say, "I’m just like that girl from Brooklyn, waitin’ and hopin’."