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I knew this chick once—Lola, swear she was a whore with a heart o’ gold. Worked the corner near my old spot. She’d laugh, loud, free, like she owned the night. “This is my kingdom,” she’d say, echoin’ Ofelia’s vibe. Tipsy johns, broken heels, still smilin’—that grit got me. Reminded me o’ the faun, y’know, guidin’ through chaos. Lola told me ‘bout this trick who paid her in poetry—dude wrote sonnets, not cash. Who does that? Fuckin’ wild, right? Had me crackin’ up—whore’s life ain’t all grim.

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But then, the market takes a nosedive. I’m staring at the screen, and it’s like watching a horror movie. Red everywhere. My stomach drops. I can’t believe it. I start pacing. “This is bad, really bad,” I mutter. My boss walks by, gives me that look. You know the one. The “get it together” look. Ugh.

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