She was positively stunning, with perfect brown skin and a hot yellow dress that showed every flaw as if it were an asset. By her feet was a drained energy drink bottle stuffed with the crack she earned standing in just that spot before someone took her away earlier. She was so fucking young and obviously frightened, watching her wrangler amble down the street. Clean, neat, polished and in her thrift store free bin finery, I was ready to adopt her on the spot.
I wanted to run up to her and say, "Are you, ya know, selling, um... anyway, you're way too pretty to be a street girl. You'll be scarred and chewed up within a week's time. Come live with your weird new white mom in her 434 square feet of pure luxury. There's one toilet that usually flushes. The couch has dog pee on it, but you're welcome to sleep there any time. Oh, hell, take the bed! Are you hungry? No? Still high? My bad."
After I snuck the shot while pretending to be texting, I smiled and said, "Hi." It came out a little too cheery and forced, but she didn't seem to notice and treated me to a return smile that I hope to see again some day.