BURN (Wattys2015?)

your night

You stand at the corner of two dimly lit streets, your worn sneakers tapping the cracked pavement.
You're in that soft gray Mickey Mouse tshirt, your favorite tshirt. She bought it for you at Disney World one year, and you've worn it so many times it barely covers your chest.
You're also in a pair of denim jeans, and a hoodie with the hood pulled up over your messy hair you hadn't bothered to brush.
You light a cigarette, but it's the cheap kind that coat your lungs with tar and taste bitter and bland. You don't care, though. You haven't cared in a while.
To a passerby, you won't look like anything more than a sad kid who's seen too much.
But to a person who's looking for you, you'll be exactly what they want to see. Someone to buy pleasure from.
You weren't the usual businessman, your clients had to go through a special network to get referred to you. You were high end, highly paid. Not that you'd see any of the money, most of it went to the special fund or a charity.
You'd get a client, and you'd stand there on the corner with them, chatting for a bit. They might bum a cigarette from you, and they'd shiver in the night's cold or shuffle their weight uncomfortably. Your gaze unnerved them. It unnerved most people.
Finally you'd discuss a date to set up an appointment with them, and them a card with a number and an address. The address was to a studio you owned downtown, a small little place, but it served its purpose.
The number? You weren't sure where it went.
You stand there for a few hours, and then toss your last cigarette down on the cracked pavement with the rest of the used pack in the gutter. You'd bend down and shuffle through the cigarette stubs to unearth a patch of dandelions growing through the crack. You'd pick one and pocket it, for no reason.
Then you'd walk a few blocks to the nearest gas station, to purchase another pack of cigarettes. You'd stand outside the gas station and smoke a few before walking some more blocks to your studio for an appointment.
You had odd hours. You worked late at night, right after ten and on until six that morning. Or you'd work on a Sunday morning, or on a Saturday morning. Oh well.
You walk in the studio, and just as you close the door you hear a knock on it. Your first customer of the day. Or night? Whatever.
You'd say hello and welcome them in. Offer them tea because they might be nervous, if this was the first time they'd work with you. Sometimes it was a regular, who'd never take the tea, but always asked to use your bathroom first. You'd shrug, because you didn't care what they did. Their time was money for you.
While they had tea or used the bathroom, you'd grab something from your stash to numb you, to make this night something you wouldn't remember.
It didn't matter if your client was a man or a woman, they were all the same in the end. They both liked things the same way. It didn't matter that you preferred one gender over the other, you were usually too high to care.
They'd be ready after a few minutes, and you'd be ready, too. You'd discard the jeans, the hoodie, the old Mickey Mouse tshirt she got you.
And then it would begin.
You tasted like cigarettes and they usually tasted like coffee and stress.
Once it was over, they'd either rush to get out of there, or they'd ask to stay for a bit. You told them they could stay until your next appointment, and then you'd get out a sketchbook. You never asked them if you could draw them, you just did. You guess it's sick, to keep drawings of your client, but you lived to capture their vulnerability. They were always so them, so raw after a session.
You'd set the sketchbook down and ask them if they wanted more (or any) tea. They'd say no and you'd show them to the door, not bothering to tell them to come back. They'd always come back.
And then you'd have a moment of peace and quiet. A moment of serenity. You'd stare at the smoggy sky out your window and pretend to see stars. You might smoke another cigarette to get rid of the taste of whoever your last client was.
Just like that, the moment was over and there was another knock on the door.