Z.

A.

My name is Zara. Don't ask me for my surname because I don't know who my father is. I usually use 'Voltaire' because I like the ring of it. I'm a petite, curly-haired Persian girl. Or at least that's what I like to think of myself. Somebody once told me that my mother was Congolese but I don't believe it because the person was a madman from the gallows. 

When I was 5, I would enter into people's homes through their windows. I did this to survive. I mostly stole food but as I grew older, it became frequent shopping sprees in the drawers and wardrobes of aristocrats and people who just had really good taste in clothes. It cost me a few sleepless nights on the floor of a prison cell. Some days I would sit in a hyacinth tree and watch the drug-dealers in my block sell poison to people like myself. And other days, I just wanted to sit in the rain until I sobered up to face yet another streak of daylight. 

On this particular day, I walked into the corner store and asked the man behind the counter if he could give me the usual cigarette that I smoked every day on my way to meetings with perverted men. "Sorry, all out of Stuyvesant", he murmured. His name was Al. I had slept with him once and ever since I dropped his ass, he's been low-key refusing to sell me cigarettes. "f**k you", I replied, and walked out of the shop. It was getting too cranky anyway. Why don't they f*****g get a damn air conditioner? I thought to myself, a bit too loud. Loud enough for Al to respond with curses in Spanish. 'Puta' was all I heard. Was it weird that I found pleasure in a man calling me a prostitute in Spanish? Or was it just that I was not used to getting any consideration from men that I thought an insult was actually a compliment? Or maybe I thought Spanish to be a wonderful language.

I had walked 5 blocks down from the corner store and I could hear a vehicle slowing down beside me. Good, now I don't have to walk all the way to the city in these stolen platforms. The car, which I had figured out to be an old Toyota that I'm pretty sure belonged to a group of Nigerian exorcists, swerved in front of me. Okay, maybe not exorcists because I'm certain my own supposed 'evil spirits' would have been expelled if they were. "Hello pretty gyal. Mek mi tell unuh bout mi love fuh yuh," he said. Okay. Not Nigerian, but Jamaican. f**k me. 'Bombaclat' is all I can manage before I walk around the Toyota and continue my painful itinerary. "Ahh gyal, yuh tink seh mi a ramp wid yuh," he calls out, before promising to bother me next time around. 

I had completely forgotten that I initially wanted a lift to avoid bumping into the veritable owner of the shoes I was wearing. f**k it. I was already standing in front of the bus anyways, wondering how the hell I got there so fast. Must've been my train of thoughts. See what I did there? You're a f*****g i***t Zara, not a litteraire. Headphones in, I was zoning out and gazing out of the window, wondering what the next character of my lucid dreams would be called. Amsterdam was a beautiful city. At least for those who didn't have to sleep in train stations and backrooms. 

The man I was going to meet was called Adolf Milan. I met him on a dating site. Yeah go ahead, roast me. But I just needed a few more Euros to hold my spot in that Quaker's house. I got off the bus and already smelt the tulips and m*******a in the air. Amsterdam was a city known for its beautiful flowers but also notorious for its mass intake of m*******a in its little coffee shops and pubs.

I was to meet Adolf in a similar pub called the '420 Café.' It reeked of Irish and Gaelic men who were never shy to smack a woman's ass when she'd walk past them. It really didn't bother me and occasionally, I'd throw in a wink only if I was high enough. There he was. Blonde, and well, just blonde. I know you were expecting some charming Channing Tatum look-alike but I'm sorry to disappoint you. This toad looked more like Rick Flair but minus the sunburn. If you don't know who that is then I'm also sorry. "Zara", he said with a thin smile. Formal, aren't we. "Hey Dolfie, it's nice to finally meet you", I replied, trying to keep a straight face. I swear that 'Dolfie' sounded less funny in my head. He blatantly ignored my attempts at lightening the mood and cut straight to the chase after what seemed like an eternity. "I vil give you 70 Euros for 5 hours", is what I thought I heard him say. Are you f*****g kidding me? I was about to protest when I remembered that I only needed 50 Euros to keep me from being homeless and an additional 20 Euros to get me back home. 

The meal I was hoping to receive courtesy of Adolf was not even included. We just walked right out of the café and straight into his Lexus. Great, another night without a hot plate of something, anything. The drive was long. I thought of this old man pounding away, straight into a heart attack, for 5 hours. Sweating on top of me and making grunting noises that would startle an actual pig. By the time 

I got home, my feet were aching, my chapped lips no longer had lipstick on, I smelt of Old spice and Cuban cigars, and my rent was paid. After taking a cold shower, I lay in bed and closed my eyes. I thought of the Jamaican man. Maybe I could f**k him for free weed. Puta. Oh yes...