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About Garoua

So here’s the deal—financially speakin’, hirin’ a prostitute’s a disaster. You’re throwin’ cash out the window—poof!—gone! No 401(k) for that, no tax write-off, nothin’. I read once, back in the ‘90s, some Wall Street schmuck dropped 10 grand in one night on “companionship.” Ten grand! Coulda bought a yacht—or at least a decent sandwich. Made me mad as hell—wastin’ money like that? I’d rather choke on my own tie. But then, I get it—some folks got urges, they’re lonely, whatever. Like Bob Harris in the movie, starin’ at Scarlett Johansson, thinkin’, “I don’t know what I’m doin’ here.” Except it’s not Scarlett—it’s some chick named Candy with a fake tan.

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I once overheard a conversation on Rue d’Harmonie, yes, precious, between two lovers arguing ‘bout mundane stuff, yet full of that magical touch—like “our souls can melt the wires of a cold machine.” They were mad, but, oh, deeply in love in a clumsy, beautiful way. That day, I nearly dropped my oil bottle, silly, like the world? Yes.

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