a towel from the chest of drawers and go to my neighbour Lulu’s. I haven’t got a shower. She lets me use hers, and it’s nicer. Before, I had to use the shared bathroom. No lock on the door, just a dribble of water and filthy floor tiles. We’ve asked the landlord to replace them hundreds of times, but he doesn’t want to know. He says,
Isn’t it enough that I rent out rooms to people like you? So get off my case
. He never wants us on his case, except when it’s to pay the rent. He wants to know about that all right, the bastard. I know, everyone has to make a living … but that’s still no reason to be such a shit.
His eyes are wide-set, like a fish, and he’s bald. He taps his pudgy fingers on his counter and says he’s a hotel-keeper. He talks of his ‘establishment’ with pride. He’s mixed up in all sorts of dodgy deals.
When he kicked Valente out, we all refused to pay our daily rent. He said he’d call the police. We told him the cops would be more than happy to stick theirnoses in his business and inspect the showers and his books. Then he turned the heating off. It was January. After three days, we started paying again. We never saw Valente again. He wanted to go back to Brazil.
I wash with a mini soap. I like feeling the roughness of my skin, the way it goes taut and chapped after washing. Shower gel’s too gentle. It leaves your skin slightly greasy, like when you oil it. I prefer it when my skin’s dry. I feel cleansed – disinfected. I soap my face too. I frown. My skin feels tight – I like that sensation.
I’ve got little zits on my neck, apparently it’s the rubbing because I always wear a scarf. Not acne or blackheads, but dry little zits. I scratch them and scrape them off with my nails. Sometimes, there’s one that won’t come off, so I save it until the next day. When I go back to my room after my shower, that’s my little task.
After that, I’m hungry. I boil an egg or heat up a tin of food. I breakfast in front of the TV. It’s a load of rubbish, but I like watching it.
I’m a streetwalker. Not a call girl or anything likethat, no, a common streetwalker with high heels and menthol cigarettes.
This morning, I’m going somewhere to do someone a big favour. I don’t intend to go into detail and tell you about my childhood, my love life and all my woes. I’m not going to tell you how I ended up like this – you’d get too much of a kick out of it. All you’re going to get is my day. If you were expecting me to talk about rape, being abandoned, HIV and heroin, you can fuck off, pervert. You’ll get nothing more than my day, which is just like all the other days of my life and just like all the days to come until I die. There’ll be no family tragedy, front-page news or armchair psychology.
It’s a nice day – not that it makes any difference to me. I walk in the shade. I’m wearing a trenchcoat, and I look like a typist, even though I’m not going to the office. Under my trenchcoat, latex. I like that word.
Latex
. It smacks in your mouth.
I wait for the bus, smoking a fag. The 21 to Glacière Arago.
I listen to the sounds of the city as if it’s music. A folk song with people walking and children playing.
I like jailbirds. They’re sweet! They want to marry me. They don’t have any other options. I refuse to play the tart with a heart who
likes
giving pleasure, but for the guys in Santé prison, it’s different. It’s less sad. It’s less sad because it’s sadder.
I write in the bus. Schoolkids are on their way to lunch. The old people go about their old people’s business. They know all the stops, they know all the streets. I’d like to know what they’re thinking about inside their little old people’s heads. They chew over their memories , they gnaw at them inside their tired brains. They clutch their tickets in their trembling hands. They’re afraid – you can see it in their glassy little eyes. They play their part of old
Isn’t it enough that I rent out rooms to people like you? So get off my case
. He never wants us on his case, except when it’s to pay the rent. He wants to know about that all right, the bastard. I know, everyone has to make a living … but that’s still no reason to be such a shit.
His eyes are wide-set, like a fish, and he’s bald. He taps his pudgy fingers on his counter and says he’s a hotel-keeper. He talks of his ‘establishment’ with pride. He’s mixed up in all sorts of dodgy deals.
When he kicked Valente out, we all refused to pay our daily rent. He said he’d call the police. We told him the cops would be more than happy to stick theirnoses in his business and inspect the showers and his books. Then he turned the heating off. It was January. After three days, we started paying again. We never saw Valente again. He wanted to go back to Brazil.
I wash with a mini soap. I like feeling the roughness of my skin, the way it goes taut and chapped after washing. Shower gel’s too gentle. It leaves your skin slightly greasy, like when you oil it. I prefer it when my skin’s dry. I feel cleansed – disinfected. I soap my face too. I frown. My skin feels tight – I like that sensation.
I’ve got little zits on my neck, apparently it’s the rubbing because I always wear a scarf. Not acne or blackheads, but dry little zits. I scratch them and scrape them off with my nails. Sometimes, there’s one that won’t come off, so I save it until the next day. When I go back to my room after my shower, that’s my little task.
After that, I’m hungry. I boil an egg or heat up a tin of food. I breakfast in front of the TV. It’s a load of rubbish, but I like watching it.
I’m a streetwalker. Not a call girl or anything likethat, no, a common streetwalker with high heels and menthol cigarettes.
This morning, I’m going somewhere to do someone a big favour. I don’t intend to go into detail and tell you about my childhood, my love life and all my woes. I’m not going to tell you how I ended up like this – you’d get too much of a kick out of it. All you’re going to get is my day. If you were expecting me to talk about rape, being abandoned, HIV and heroin, you can fuck off, pervert. You’ll get nothing more than my day, which is just like all the other days of my life and just like all the days to come until I die. There’ll be no family tragedy, front-page news or armchair psychology.
It’s a nice day – not that it makes any difference to me. I walk in the shade. I’m wearing a trenchcoat, and I look like a typist, even though I’m not going to the office. Under my trenchcoat, latex. I like that word.
Latex
. It smacks in your mouth.
I wait for the bus, smoking a fag. The 21 to Glacière Arago.
I listen to the sounds of the city as if it’s music. A folk song with people walking and children playing.
I like jailbirds. They’re sweet! They want to marry me. They don’t have any other options. I refuse to play the tart with a heart who
likes
giving pleasure, but for the guys in Santé prison, it’s different. It’s less sad. It’s less sad because it’s sadder.
I write in the bus. Schoolkids are on their way to lunch. The old people go about their old people’s business. They know all the stops, they know all the streets. I’d like to know what they’re thinking about inside their little old people’s heads. They chew over their memories , they gnaw at them inside their tired brains. They clutch their tickets in their trembling hands. They’re afraid – you can see it in their glassy little eyes. They play their part of old
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