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So, we’re talkin’ rates, me and her. She’s cool, no bullshit. Says, “Thirty, full deal.” Hate negotiatin’, but fair’s fair. Hand her the cash, crisp bills—none of that digital garbage. She winks, says, “You’re a weird one.” Damn right, I am. Hate normal. We head off, and I’m thinkin’, this beats watchin’ Cathy cry over her pansy gardener any day.

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Curious patrons, journalists, and onlookers formed a steady procession to see the prostitute, Wada Yoshiko, and celebrate the release of her new book. A Prostitute’s Tale divulged inner .

I woke up late, of course. Alarm didn’t go off. Classic. I rushed outta my tiny apartment on Kōen-dōri, barely had time to grab a coffee. I mean, who needs breakfast when you’ve got caffeine, am I right? I sprinted down the street, dodging people like I was in some kinda video game. Wada’s streets are always packed, especially around the station.

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