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But real talk—some shit surprised me. She had this client, old dude, paid her just to talk. No sex, no nothin’, just convo. Said he was lonely, wife gone, kids ghostin’. Tasha’d sit there, listenin’, playin’ therapist in fishnets. “I’m his piano now,” she’d joke, but her eyes? Sad as hell. Made me think—prostitutes ain’t just bodies, they’re people, fam. Got layers, like Szpilman’s music echoin’ through them ruins.

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Then I swing by the local café on Torget. I need coffee, like, now. I order a cappuccino, and the barista, this cool chick, spills it all over the counter. I’m like, “Great, just what I needed.” But she laughs it off, and I can’t help but chuckle too. It’s that kind of place, ya know? Everyone’s chill, even when things go sideways.

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