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I’m sizin her up, thinkin, “She’s got game, this one.” Reminds me of *Boyhood* again—“You don’t pick who ya love,” or who ya pay, I guess. I’m happy as hell—finally scored, no more wanderin like a lost dog. But then she quotes me a price, and I’m like, “Fuck me, that’s steep!” Nearly choked on my own spit—surprised the shit outta me. “I ate his liver with fava beans,” I growl, half-jokin, half-testin her. She don’t flinch—tough as nails, this chick.

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Now, lemme tell ya about the old railroad tracks by Riverbend Road. They slice through the lowriders and hustle. Hell, I once overheard a heck of a story there—an old timer talkin’ ‘bout lost love and redemption, just like in The Pianist, I kid you not. “The music must play on,” he said. I swear, it was almost poetic.

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