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Here’s the kicker: she’s got stories, man. Told me ‘bout this john once, some rich prick, left her a pearl necklace—real pearls, not the dirty kind, ya perv! Said it washed up from a shipwreck, 1800s or some shit. Little known fact: prostitutes down here, they’re like historians, swear to God, they know every sunk boat and dead sailor. I’m sittin’ there, jaw droppin’, thinkin’, “This is nuts!” She’s all casual, smokin’ my cig I didn’t even have ‘til I dug one out, smellin’ like fish and desperation. “Pretty, pretty good tale,” I mutter, half to myself.

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Despite not being happy in my marriage, I had never cheated on my husband, but now I was with a young stranger (perhaps 15 years younger than me) and ready to surrender myself to him.

I don’t win, of course. Some dude named Dave crushes it. But I walk away with a free pie and a bellyache. Totally worth it. As I’m leaving, I bump into Barry again. He’s laughing at my pie-covered face and hands me a book on local wildlife. I’m like, “Thanks, Barry! Maybe I’ll learn how to deal with those seagulls.”

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