Mattresses and car seats.

A five minute break from work.

Sipping on an iced hibiscus and rose hip tea, smoking a cigarette.

I sat in the outdoor chair, and my feet didn’t touch the ground. Most of the time it goes unnoticed. Swinging feet, my normalcy.

Certainly, parts of us always remain childish.

I talked through a glorified walkie-talkie, sure to make the static sound when finished speaking. He on the other end whispered things that made me giggle like a silly school girl. Through my gasps I noticed a hooker being turned down, and it bummed me out a little.

So I said to him, “How do you a cheer a hooker up?” He, thinking it was a joke said, “Bring your own mouthwash?”

Hookers, after a trick, tend to walk with their heads down. I wonder how much of that is riddled with shame, or if it’s just from holding a tensed neck during a long blowjob. In any event, it’s a long walk to watch, and I’m sure even longer to step.

The lonesome hooker gets closer to me and notices my cigarette. I’m used to this part, and I don’t mind sharing with a working class gal. I extend my arm holding out the box of cigarettes, one cigarette sticking out farther than the rest, allowing for an easy escape, and wondering if she plans her jobs along the same lines. She gets closer, and we smile and she grabs it without breaking pace.

I chuckle to myself, pleased with the moment.

I stand up, and start to head back in, when she turns on her heel, four or five yards away from me. I look at her and she softly yells, “Girl, you saved a woman’s day. I’ll pray for you tonight.”

And I thought to myself, shouldn’t I pray for you?

I paused before I opened the door and thought of Miss Antoinette from Savannah. I still remember her number. She had me repeat it several times. 236-4437. She said she was there as long as I remembered.

Her pure faith lifted my day, her blessings surely the thing that brought me one of my greatest nights. I thought about calling her, asking if she’d bless the woman who looks at her shoes as she walks. Maybe give her a pillow, a home cooked meal, clean clothes.

But as I stepped inside, those thoughts faded and the images erased… and that broke my heart more than all of it.

A woman forgotten. A woman discarded.

I resisted the urge to give her my address, to tell her where the towels are kept, and where the extra pillows are.

Denying it felt so wrong.

But a working gal gets used to it.