I don’t like to lie here. If I’m going to write, I write as I am.
Today I had all kinds of customers, but one stuck in my mind. Not because he was special. But because he was… I don’t know… begging. He had that look on his face, like a man who comes with his heart in his hand and thinks I’m going to put it back together for him.
Bro… I’m not glue. I’m just me. And I don’t fix people.
He walked into the booth like it was his first day of school. Shy, wide-eyed, waiting for me to say, “It’s okay.” But it’s not okay. Not for me. Not for him.
We’re not here to hold hands.
He had that look that says, “Be nice to me.”
I’m not nice. I haven’t been for a long time.
I was nice when I was 15 and dreamed of love. Now I just have my schedule and my cigarette break.
He told me he didn’t want anything “wild.” He just wanted “warmth.”
Soup is warm, not me.
I’m tired, sweaty, with smudged mascara and a head full of thoughts. I don’t give warmth to anyone.
I give a few minutes and that’s it. That’s it.
I looked at him for a moment.
If he didn’t have that lost boy look, maybe I would have taken him differently.
Maybe I would have even liked him.
But I can’t stand men who look like they’re afraid of me.
I don’t know why, but I feel like sending them home with their emotions in tow.
Maybe I’m mean. Maybe I’m completely broken.
But honestly?
There’s no room left in me for pity.
Don’t get me wrong. I have nothing against weak people.
But when you come here, you don’t come for the soul.
You don’t come for that, and I don’t give you that.
He left quickly. He left with his head down, as if I had hit him without touching him.
Honestly, I didn’t even feel like encouraging him.
I lit a cigarette and moved on.
I don’t know if what I’m doing is right. I don’t know if I’m a human being or a robot or what the hell I’ve become.
But I know one thing: men with begging faces tire me more than the program itself.
And I know something else:
if he hadn’t had that face…
yes, I would have fucked him with pleasure.
But like this… I can’t.
I can’t be sweet to anyone. Not even to myself.
Te-as fute daca n-ai avea fata aia de milog
Nu-mi place sa mint aici. Daca tot scriu, scriu asa cum sunt eu.
Azi am avut tot felul de clienti, dar unul mi-a ramas in cap. Nu pentru ca era special. Ci pentru ca era… nu stiu… milog. Avea fata aia de barbat care vine cu sufletul in mana si crede ca o sa-l lipesc eu la loc.
Frate… nu sunt lipici. Sunt doar eu. Si eu nu repar oameni.
A intrat in cabina ca si cum era prima zi de scoala. Timid, cu ochii mari, asteptand sa-i spun „hai ca e ok”. Dar nu e ok. Nu pentru mine. Nu pentru el.
Nu suntem aici ca sa ne tinem de mana.
Avea privirea aia care zice „fii draguta cu mine”.
Eu nu sunt draguta. Nu mai sunt de mult.
Draguta eram cand aveam 15 ani si visam la iubire. Acum am doar program si pauza de tigara.
Mi-a spus ca nu vrea ceva „salbatic”. Ca vrea doar „caldura”.
Calda e supa, nu eu.
Eu sunt obosita, transpirata, cu rimelul intins si capul plin de ganduri. Nu dau caldura nimanui.
Dau cateva minute si gata. Aia e.
L-am privit putin.
Daca nu avea fata aia de baiat pierdut, poate il luam altfel.
Poate chiar imi placea de el.
Dar eu nu suport barbatii care arata ca le e frica de mine.
Nu stiu de ce, dar imi vine sa-i trimit acasa cu pachetul de emotii dupa ei.
Poate sunt rea. Poate sunt stricata de tot.
Dar sincer?
Nu mai exista loc in mine pentru mila.
Sa nu ma intelegi gresit. N-am nimic cu oamenii slabi.
Dar cand intri aici, nu vii pentru suflet.
Nu veniti voi pentru asta si nici eu nu va dau asa ceva.
A iesit repede. A plecat cu capul plecat, ca si cum l-am lovit fara sa-l ating.
Sincer, nici n-am avut chef sa-l incurajez.
Mi-am aprins o tigara si am mers mai departe.
Nu stiu daca e bine ce fac. Nu stiu daca sunt eu om sau robot sau ce dracu am devenit.
Dar stiu ceva: barbatii cu fata de milog ma obosesc mai tare decat programul in sine.
Si mai stiu ceva:
daca n-ar fi avut fata aia…
da, l-as fi futut cu placere.
Dar asa… nu pot.
Nu pot sa fiu dulce pentru nimeni. Nici macar pentru mine.