She was nearly pushed out of the Land
Rover parked just before where the streetlights demarcated the civilised from
the uncivilised. It was a cold London night and she fumbled with her jacket and
her handbag. A hand silhouetted out of the open window of the Rover, handed her
a few queens and the Rover sped away. She looked at those notes in her hand.
They were less than what was agreed, but she didn’t bother to count them. Money
was about to loose its importance to her after the night. Everything would
loose its importance after the night. She had decided. She was going to die.
She was going to kill herself.
Escorts, this is what the civilised
world called creatures likes her. Use-and-throw is how she named her
fraternity, including herself. Sofia is what she named herself after she became
an escort twelve years ago. Jessica is what she was called when she was born to
her pathetic parents thirty-one years ago. The thicker the book of her life
grew, the quicker and easier it became for her to turn the pages around. As if
life has run very very swiftly, she thought and failed to remember when was the
last time when someone called her Jessy. Anyone except her. Jessy, the only
word that kept her related to her pious non-existent self in her world that
only comprised of men and women executing their fantasies and frustrations on
her.
