You hear her high heeled footsteps on the pavement.
She’s in her best clothes. A shimmery dupatta is draped loosely over her head. At corners she stops. She stops and waits. People see the look in her eyes. The seductive glimmer. Her red lips curl into a smile. She winks at her contenders.
She catches his eye and he pulls up on his motorbike. He smirks, and she’s his. All his— for an hour and just 500 rupees.
That’s what he’ll call her when she leaves. Even if she heard him it wouldn’t matter. She’s probably heard worse.
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