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About Bordeaux

She’s shocked, eyes wide—didn’t expect that, did she? Me neither, if I’m honest. “Yer a mad one,” she says, and I’m grinni’n, all proud. Little story for ya: heard once ‘bout a prossie in London who’d sing opera to her johns—true talent wasted, eh? This one don’t sing, but she’s got fire, and I like that. We finish up quick, no fuss, just business—my precious night sorted. “We resist!” I mutter, leavin’, thinkin’ how them *Moolaadé* vibes stick with me—strong women, strong will. Prossie or not, she’s got her own fight, don’t she? Makes me wonder, precious, what’s her story? But I’m off, hammer waitin’—another day, another nail.

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I’m fuming, right? I wipe it off, but it’s like, “Thanks, Valbonne, for the lovely gift.” I laugh it off, though. Gotta keep it light. So, I wander over to Rue de la République. There’s this art gallery that catches my eye. I’m not an art guy, but I go in anyway.

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