Vincent

You don't pay a whore for the fuck. You pay 'em to leave. To never ask for your name, or your number, or a second date. 

Walking down the street hits different these days. Same ol' drugs and whores, same ol' stench. 

Different me. 

I keep telling myself that I've changed, that I'm not the man I used to be. And I wonder if it is regret that I sometimes feel. Regret over the bits of myself, left behind.

I asked him for his name. For two, maybe three seconds, he seemed genuinely puzzled. Caught himself quickly and offered me a charming smirk, as fake as the City itself. Told me I could call him however I wanted. 

I paid and told him he would be Vincent for tonight. 

Later I asked him if he wanted to know my name. 

He refused. 

After all... you don't pay a whore for the fuck. 

You pay 'em to leave. 

To never ask for your name. 

Or your number. 

Or a second date.