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Raspy growl—met her once, cash upfront, no chit-chat. Smelled like cheap perfume, ciggies, and regret. “What’s your story, love?” I asks, all nosy. She laughs, harsh, “Ain’t no fairy tale, mate.” Made me mad, that—world chewin her up, spittin her out. Happy tho, she’s got sass, fight in her! Surprised me, yeh, tougher than me drumsticks. Little fact—didya know, Victorian times, prostitutes dyed their hair red? Stand out, they did—bloody clever, right?

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After that, I decide to walk back home. I take a detour through Rua da Alegria. The name’s fitting, but today? Not so much. I see a street performer trying to juggle, but he keeps dropping his stuff. I’m like, “Dude, you’re killing me!” But hey, at least he’s trying, right?

Portuguese fire-fighters contain two major fires