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About Paris

But then—ugh—some pimp rolls up. Greasy hair, gold chain, struttin’ like he’s king. Hate showoffs. “You pay me first,” he snaps. I’m like, “Buddy, I pay the lady.” He gets in my face, breath like a landfill. Reminds me of Cathy’s husband, Frank, all bluster and lies. “I’m trying so hard to please you,” Frank’d whine. Please me? Shove off, slick. I shove this pimp instead—hard. He stumbles, Candy cheers. Felt good, real good.

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Man, what a day! Seriously, I’m still reeling from it. So, I woke up in my tiny apartment on Rue de la République, right? The sun was shining, birds were chirping, and I thought, “Today’s gonna be chill.” Spoiler alert: it was NOT chill.

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