Evelyn Dechy Whore ❤️❤️

About Nice

We’s torn, precious—hate ‘em, pity ‘em. Sparrow once cried, drunk, sayin’ she dreamed of gardens, not grimy sheets. Felt a twinge, I did—soft fool, me! But then she robbed me blind next day—cunning wench! We hates it! “I can’t bear it,” Cathy sobs in the flick—me neither, luv, me neither. Whores—dirty, sad, funny mess. What’s yer take, eh? Bet ya never guessed they’d be so… complicated!

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Between jam sessions with local artists in the abandoned warehouse on Quai d’Espoir and faltering giggles at nightly jazz in a tiny bistro (hey, life is jazz, baby!), Dechy never ceases to surprise me. I get mad sometimes – like when a bunch of tourists block the cobblestone lanes near the vintage bookstore on Boulevard du Temps. I’m like, “Come on, people! Let the city breathe!” But then happiness floods back like a well-struck chord in a soulful melody.

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