¡Llévame al cuarto!

Get attached at your own risk.

It's a side street and not the main thoroughfare. Several tipos mill about the curb.

She can't be more than twenty-two. Long black hair cascades to her waist. A tarnished amulet—the tree of life—hangs from a braided chain around her neck. The straps of her heels remain unfastened. Not worth the effort today.

She looks ill. Sweating. Shivering. Takes more than that to keep her away. The bouncer puts down his phone long enough to get her a chair to sit on and something to put around her shoulders.

"Llévame al cuarto. ¿Quieres coger?"

Her voice is hoarse. Her heart's not in it. In any event her plea to passers-by is drowned out by the horn of a taxi that accelerates before the light turns.

It's a world of inversion. Spite hides behind a smile. Disgust poses as mock pleasure. Her tone is affectionate, but the interaction couldn't be more anonymous. The more vulgar she becomes, the more the guys think she means it. Everything about the experience is bogus, insincere, contrived, but it always works. Guys lap it up, leave with a grin, and return as soon as they can afford to. They have their favorites and visa versa, but at the heart of it all lies the message that people—even at their most vulnerable—are replaceable, interchangeable, expendable, disposable. The surface is all there is. No moment matters more than any other. Get attached at your own risk.

What happens when the lights come up and she gets on the bus and goes home? What then? Who watches the kids or takes care of mom when it's time to go to work? What if she gets diarrhea or menstrual cramps so bad she can't get out of bed? What else is there to dream of or reach for? Standing in a doorway in lingerie. Manufacturing erections. Ingesting their contents. One slob down—ten to go. Fifteen if it's a good night. There's a human story somewhere in the background, in some colonia where the #68 or #223 bus finishes its run. There is someone she needs and loves and someone who needs and loves her. Does anybody know? Does anybody care? Would it change things if someone did?

BACK.

It hurts. It costs. La máquina no da cambio. MORE.