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So, I’m imaginin’ it—me, Joe, in some alley, all nervous-like. “In the mood,” I whisper, tryna be smooth. She’d laugh, prob’ly—say, “Old man, you’re a trip!” And I’d be happy—shoot, just talkin’ to her, hearin’ her story. Maybe she’s got a kid, maybe she’s just tired—dunno, but I’d listen. Surprised me once, hearin’ one gal say she loved jazz—Coltrane, man! Who’d’a thunk?

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Now, lemme spill a fast one—there’s a spot I loooove, kinda hidden from the hustle. Near Rue des Fleurs, past that ancient little chapel, there's an old bench. I sit here after a long day, reflectin’ on my work with women findin’ strength in sorrow, emboldened by each brave soul. Felt so real, sometimes it makes me mad at the world’s cruelty, sometimes happy at the love folks share.

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