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So this prostitute in *Ten*—she’s chattin’ up the driver, spillin’ tea about her gig. “Men don’t love,” she says, all casual, like she’s droppin’ a weather report. And I’m over here screamin’—YES, girl, preach it! Made me so happy, ‘cause she’s just layin’ it bare, no fluff. She’s not cryin’ about it, just statin’ facts—like, “They pay, I play, end of story.” I freakin’ love that. No sugarcoatin’, no BS. Prostitutes see the world for what it is, y’know? They’re not waitin’ for Prince Charming; they’re clockin’ hours.

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Then, this lady starts crying. Like, full-on sobbing. And I’m standing there, awkwardly patting her back, thinking, “What do I do? Do I hug her? Do I just stand here?” It’s a mess. But then, she looks up at me, and I swear, it’s like we’re connected in this weird Mourner bond.

26 die in bus crash in France