Low on the Go!

you remind me of trixie.

you stood there at the entrance. black strappy stilettos, little black dress. an ensemble that every girl should own at least one duplicate of. your right hand on your hip, your shoulder against the wall. in your left hand, a cigarette, fresh and newly lit. your hair was long, golden blonde and fell past your waist.

i hurried along the sidewalk. it was raining. we've been trained well. to skip the eyes from one store, past the strip club, to the HMV. today, i couldn't skip my eyes. i looked at you, laughing, chatting away with the other two people in the entrance. is your laughter genuine?

you reminded me of trixie.

every now and then, i wonder. is she okay? is she safe? how many men have picked her up tonight? it's only midnight. the night is young, and there are still many more hours of work. is it cold outside? it must be. has she been arrested again? is her body still compliant? or is it mutinous, wreaked with disease and infections?
trixie laughed with the other women as well. it wasn't genuine.

sometimes, i wonder how our lives could be so different.
how can i sit here, typing away, dissatisfied because my computer is five years old, while you stand in the cold giving yourself away to minivans that pass by?

i think about her surprise when we told her we were in our late teens, early twenties and we had not yet had sex. she refused to believe us. how was that possible, she asked.

every once in awhile, i think about trixie. the eighteen year old prostitute who hugged me. where is she now? is she safe? will i see her in eternity?

the cynic in me says no. the believer in me says believe.

i want to believe. help my unbelief.