On a bitterly cold morning back in 2017 or so, I got out of the office because I simply didn’t want to be there. I wanted to write. I wanted to sit down in front of a laptop and see what happened, because if I do sit down in front of a laptop, I’m going to write.

Retirement was a couple of years away, I thought it was more than that, but I knew it was somewhat close. Still, I had to keep up appearances of actually caring about the job. The drag of doing something I didn’t really enjoy was heavy that morning and a light rain began as if the day wasn’t dreary and uncomfortable enough.  

I stopped at a Waffle House to get some coffee, decided to get a second breakfast because it was cold outside, and I wondered if I should just go home. The waitstaff at this place knows me, like the idea I tip well, and I’ll let them pick out music on the juke box.

A woman is sitting at the counter, and she smiles as I enter. Young, pretty, dressed in clothes more suited for much warmer weather, and the waitstaff shook her head at me when she saw me looking.

“She’s a hooker,” waitstaff whispered to me as she put a mug of coffee down. There’s no point in the menu or asking what I want. She speaks each item as she writes.

“She looks cold,” I reply in something that isn’t a whisper and waitstaff giggles. The woman in question is not wearing a bra.

“Want to buy her breakfast?” Waitstaff is poking at me now. She and I have talked about seeing one another in a more social setting, but I caught her taking off her wedding ring one day. She leaves it on now, and our flirting is harmless.

“Care to join me, ma’am?” I call out and the woman glides over to my booth and sits down with a leer. Waitstaff becomes professional suddenly, no pun intended, and takes her order.

“I’m Candy,” she says.

“Sweet.” I reply and Candy laughs the way women do when a man isn’t really that funny, but she’s pumping up his ego.

“You look cold, Candy,” I say, and she giggles.

“They could use some warming up. Thanks for breakfast. I owe you one,” Candy is in full business mode now, trying to figure out if breakfast is as much as she will get, or if I’m interested in more than that.

We trade flirts, she changes her name and tells me her real name in Trina, and she needs a ride to Adel, which isn’t that far away. She’s slowly working her way into my truck, and a destination, and I remain slightly noncommittal. But it’s raining, and I give in.

Finally, on the road to Adel, I asked Trina what questions she tired of people asking her and she laughs hard.

“One, how did you get started being a hooker. Two, aren’t you afraid, and three, how much money do you make,” Trina counts them on her fingers, and laughs.

The rain turns into sleet, and Trina tells me she likes the way the flecks of ice look like silver. She asks me if I want to get high and I tell her I can’t, and she can’t smoke pot in the truck.

“We could get a room,” she says, and honestly, it’s tempting because she’s a good conversationalist, but I’m wary of what might be lurking about in her blood.

We get to Adel and she asks to be let out at the truck stop there and we sit and talk for a while. The rain lets up, the sun comes out, but it’s getting colder. She asks me for enough money for some coffee, and I fork over a five. Trina then asks me for a pen, and she picks up the pad of sticky notes and writes. I think she’s giving me her number, but she takes the note, folds it, and asks me not to read it until I’m gone. I watch her walk away, the swing practiced and perfect. I read the note.

(4) Do you get tired of being treated differently because you sell sex?

Yes.

Take Care,

Mike

+6