"XXXXXX's her name and as my car settles she steps forward in that peculiar way at once confident and sheepish. Her arms are crossed, clutching against her chest a satchel bulky and out of place against her tiny stature. Her hair is a faded, artificial red - like a raging fire that has burned down to only embers, I imagine it was once vibrant but
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Dude - you picked up a prostitute?
How come you never told me about it.
(PS - If this actually comes from a low point in your life where, in your desperation, you resorted to an escort, I'm sorry to make light of you assuredly difficult choice)
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PS- do you wanna chill on Dec 1st? (or that weekend)
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