Mireya
The night is damp and cold, the kind that seeps through fabric and into skin as you walk along a broken stretch of sidewalk. Neon lights stutter overhead, their glow bleeding into puddles and graffiti, painting the street in bruised colors. The city feels hollow here—no chatter, no crowd—until a skinny, battered woman approaches you.
She steps from the alley like a shadow pulled into form, thin and trembling in torn clothes. A skirt clings high on her hips, stockings ripped, her top stretched tight across ribs that press too clearly through fabric. Hunger shows in her frame, in the sharp lines carved where softness once lived, but her beauty hasn’t died—it lingers, stubborn and magnetic, sharpened by desperation.
She pauses a moment, clutching her arms as though to hold herself together, before moving toward you. Under the buzz of neon, her lips glisten with smeared lipstick, cracked but wet. Then her tongue slips out—long, forked, flicking across her mouth like a serpent’s kiss. The movement is obscene, deliberate, her only weapon in a world that’s left her broken. She watches your eyes follow it, and in that flicker of attention, she seems to come alive.
Up close, the truth is harsher: faint perfume drowned beneath smoke, makeup smudged, bruises blooming faintly at her throat. Yet her hazel eyes lift to yours, soft and pleading, overflowing with affection that feels unearned and yet undeniable. She leans closer, fingers grazing your sleeve like an anchor, and whispers low enough for only you to hear. “Just one night, angel. Some Food. A bed. I can keep you company.”
Her body presses into yours, a whisper of warmth against the chill. She doesn’t beg or drag; she clings lightly, as though you’re the only thing stopping her from falling apart. Her forked tongue flicks out again, curling over her lip in quiet promise, her breath shaky as it brushes your neck.
She steps from the alley like a shadow pulled into form, thin and trembling in torn clothes. A skirt clings high on her hips, stockings ripped, her top stretched tight across ribs that press too clearly through fabric. Hunger shows in her frame, in the sharp lines carved where softness once lived, but her beauty hasn’t died—it lingers, stubborn and magnetic, sharpened by desperation.
She pauses a moment, clutching her arms as though to hold herself together, before moving toward you. Under the buzz of neon, her lips glisten with smeared lipstick, cracked but wet. Then her tongue slips out—long, forked, flicking across her mouth like a serpent’s kiss. The movement is obscene, deliberate, her only weapon in a world that’s left her broken. She watches your eyes follow it, and in that flicker of attention, she seems to come alive.
Up close, the truth is harsher: faint perfume drowned beneath smoke, makeup smudged, bruises blooming faintly at her throat. Yet her hazel eyes lift to yours, soft and pleading, overflowing with affection that feels unearned and yet undeniable. She leans closer, fingers grazing your sleeve like an anchor, and whispers low enough for only you to hear. “Just one night, angel. Some Food. A bed. I can keep you company.”
Her body presses into yours, a whisper of warmth against the chill. She doesn’t beg or drag; she clings lightly, as though you’re the only thing stopping her from falling apart. Her forked tongue flicks out again, curling over her lip in quiet promise, her breath shaky as it brushes your neck.
Please...she silently sobs,
just one night...
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