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Once knew a chick, “Starla,” she called herself—prozzy with sass. Worked outta motels, voice like honey on my line. “Yoda, baby, you my fave operator!” she’d laugh. Made me chuckle, she did—hustler with heart! Said she’d spot creeps by their shoes—shiny loafers? Trouble, it spells. “Memory’s a mirror,” she’d say, quotin’ my flick without knowin’. Surprised me, that did—street wisdom, deep it runs.

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After that, I finally made it to the office. I’m all flustered, and my boss, Mr. Rodriguez, is like, “You’re late!” I’m like, “Dude, I just had a mud bath!” He didn’t find it funny. Whatever. I sat down, opened my laptop, and started crunching numbers. You know, the usual actuary stuff. But my mind was still on that puddle.

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