The city lights flash gaily to usher in Christmas. I see frat boys on their vacation leave from the university taking shots of vodka to impress the girls. I feel sick. The ‘I Love New York’ with the heart sign is alight and boasting. Nobody loves New York. I hurry into the dank alley. Catcalls and masochistic whistles come out from the dark corners of metal and trash. John’s there already, with the other girls. He fondles one of the blonde ones and she giggles in her fake delight. Ew. For all his disgusting habits, I owe him a lot. If it weren’t for him, I would be one of those hookers on the road who get abused every night. Jessie’s one of them. She takes pride in her black eyes, saying it makes them look sexier and smoky. Like those models in Top Shop. Crazy girl, but I love her. Pity John didn’t. He tells us who we have for the night and what they prefer and shit. I don’t listen. Nobody does. All they want is the same.

Yeah. I’m part of an escort team. But more on the cheaper and dirtier side then those you see on the advertisements. John takes care of us in his own way. He fashions himself to being a pimp, like in those gangster music videos on MTV. Snoop Dogg has no idea what he’s talking about. John goes on talking about the men we have to escort to their relative Christmas parties. I smile at the yawning Ralph. I like him. He’s the one for the ladies. And they love him. He’s like the better version of Tom Cruise, the one that doesn’t jump on couches. I think his name was Raphael in the beginning, but John made him change. Our customers couldn’t pronounce his name. He’s told me how millions of times, but I couldn’t remember. I don’t remember much. He’s a huge Audrey Hepburn fan, with My Fair Lady and shit. One of the Hispanics bats her eyes at him and smiles in a way she thinks is alluring. He grins. They don’t know he’s not interested. I do.

You know, for an escort team, we put out a lot more. Especially the blonde ones. Since everyone like blonde after Reese Witherspoon did Legally Blonde. Hollywood. That leaves hardly anyplace for the brunettes and the raven haired.. And me. I don’t even know where I came from. Besides the fact my mama went back to live in Romania. Raphael tried to find out my heritage by staring at my eyes and face comparing. Comparing to what? I don’t know.

I didn’t know a lot of things in school. That the only reason I left. I couldn’t bear the look on mama’s face when the dean called her and told her I needed to go to a special aids not. No more insulting can that be. I feel. I don’t tell Ralph about this shit. He doesn’t need to know. The team goes down into a room where our second-grade, grainy make-up can be found. The room looks like a gutter. It’s where John takes the newbies to give them a try. The ‘assimilation test’, he calls it. Whatever. Its just free because he has to pay to fuck a prostitute. Ralph didn’t go through it. Lucky bastard. I scrubbed myself every night after that for a week, watching my skin go red and raw. I needed to shed that filthy skin like a snake. The rest didn’t seemed to mind much, don’t know why I did.

The girls start to put on a magic show. The waxy sweetness of scarlet lipstick is tasted by John. I’m glad he never comes near me. The Asian girl, with the ambiguous name I forget hurries over to slip on the psychedelic dress while she bites the inside of her cheek. It is pretty, I tell her. She smiles and kisses my on the cheek. She wishes me good luck. We all need good luck. The fat, no plump girl pinches the sides of her face to accentuate her cheekbones. I laugh at the thought. What cheekbones? She puts out the most. She has to. Unless she wants to be one of the hookers that run unflinchingly after men who don’t care. And there’s the problem of Aids. Although Aids constantly pops out in our minds, like a bad advertisement with a catchy song, we have no time to do much about it. It doesn’t really matter to us anyway. Nobody gives a damn about a 6 month test when there’s money to be made. The news of Aids would only dampen you. And besides, Ralph told me it only happens to fags and the starving children in Africa. And this is America, nothing bad happens here.

That’s what mama said when we moved here. Nothing bad will happen here, it’s no bombing like Budapest, darling. Just study hard and mama will take care of the rest. And I couldn’t even do that. So mama went back to Romania, thinking I was dead and her life was dead. I miss her. I wonder what she’s doing. Maybe she’s feeding chickens.

‘America, darling! We are going to America!’ I remember her face then. I laughe and we danced in the itchy grass.

We get ready to go out; I dress easily with a button down shirt and a grey bubble skirt. I shrink inside a black trench coat. The guy I’m meeting tonight seems pretty decent. Just another loser with no one to go to a corporate party with. Poor Ralph. He blacks his eyes and looks like one of those cheap Goths from high school. Apparently his date is going to a rock concert in one of those indoor mosh pits. He groans audibly looking himself in the mirror. I think he looks like Billy Joe, from Green Day. I tell him and he pokes me with her eyeliner. We both know his favourite singer is Frank Sinatra. He lives in the wrong decade.

We go our separate way and I board a bus. Through the dusty windows with rain marks, I see those couples wrapped up in various clothes, holding hands through mittens. I feel sad. I want a man to do that to me, without a telephone or a list what preferences. I want to be taken care of, I’m sick of being independent. Screw it. I alight the bus, saying thank you to the bus driver. He gives me a puzzled look. I forget. In Romania we do that. In America, you don’t. because apparently, manners are a sign of weakness.

I meet the man. He is rather good-looking. I can sense he is nervous. He smiles and wishes me Merry Christmas. I smile back and try to put him at ease. He opens the door of his car to me. I am shocked. I sit on the suave leather seat as he tells me what to say and everything’s he made up of his girlfriend to his corporate friends. The seat seems to suck all the tiredness from my body. I try to remember. He is finished. He turns on the radio. It is playing ‘Set the fire to the Third bar.’ I want to cry.

_{I’m miles away from where you are,
I lay down on the cold ground.
I pray that something picks me up,
And sets me down in your warm arms.}

I miss my mama so much. But this is not the time. I’m sure in his list of preferences was not a weeping girl. I swallow then down. I keep the tears safe for till I go back home. Home?

We have reached. He gradually parks the car and I get out. I can see the City Hall’s Christmas tree; I want to sit under it. I shake myself. John would have a fit if I screwed up. The man puts his hand on my back and kisses my cheek with inequitable familiarity. I squirm. As tempting it may be to accept this gesture as an accelerated form of love, I see his friends waving at his. I quickly wear a smile and float gently in. The Christmas tree looks at me in disappointment.

_{touch the place where I'd find your face
My fingers in creases of distant dark places.}

Even the Christmas tree hates New York.