I’ll listen to you, he said. I’ve got nothing better to do. He rolled up the car windows and parked under a streetlight. Go ahead, he told her. Spill your guts.

She applied Chapstick to her cracked, swollen lips. Looked in the mirror above. Ran her hands through her hair. Looked at him and said she wanted fifty bucks. That was her rate. Fifty bucks for a blow job. Windows steamed up. Other women walked by. A man leaning against a stop sign watched. What do you want? She asked.

I want you to tell me a story, he said. A true story. Nothing made up. Then I want you to kiss me. Really kiss me. With passion. Like you mean it.

She laughed. Looked at him. You want a story and a kiss? She asked.

Yes. Very much so, he said. It’s been so long since I’ve been kissed. Years.

I don’t kiss.

Really? Why not?

Kissing means I love you, she said. It’s something honest between two people.

And you’re not honest?

I’m a whore, she said. Never trust a whore. We’ll tell you whatever it is you want to hear. But, never honesty.

So you probably won’t tell me a true story either, he laughed.

She shook her head. Probably not. We’re like emergency room doctors. Just fix you and send you on your way.

Sometimes, people die in emergency rooms, he told her. They die with no confession. No state of grace. Poof. They’re gone. Shot. Stabbed. A heart attack. Finished. The doctor could not save them. Sometimes, dead on arrival. What do you do then?

Just move on to the next one.