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    The faces started to blur after a while. Why remember them? Each one was the same, yet different, yet the same; wanting something they thought she could give, for something silly and pseudo-existentialist like filling a void or having ‘real conversation’.

    But she didn’t care about their kids that they insisted on talking about (insensitively so, because their children’s pocket money was more than they were willing to even consider paying) or their wives’ terrible blowjobs or their boss’ terrible blow jobs. Or their unimaginative side jobs. She cared, obviously, about the money. So she smiled and sat through their fumbles.

    She did remember one face; the face that came up to her in her second week. He didn’t talk. Didn’t ask for much. He just came. And kept coming. One night he said to her, ‘I’m getting married.’ She shrugged off the sense of loss she felt and kept fucking him goodbye.

    She was still on the same corner that Valentines’ Day, but with better clothes. Holidays always served to remind people how unloved they were. So business was always good. ‘Do you remember me?’ He asked. She nodded. They went at it in the taxi parked in a dimly lit alley where a cop couldn’t find them. He didn’t talk. Didn’t ask for much.

    Divorce wasn’t so bad after all, she mused, pulling down her skirt and stepping into the nippy night air.

    The cab guy put out his hand; their usual drill. 

    Cover photo: Nairobi Noir by Msingi Sasis

    Abi pursues freedom, happiness and sleep in that order.

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