The rain had a way of washing the city clean, but it never quite reached the neon-drenched corners where Amelia worked. Tonight, the streetlights cast long, distorted shadows, and the air hung thick with the smell of wet pavement and desperation. She adjusted the collar of her worn jacket, a futile attempt to ward off the chill that seeped deeper than the weather.
“Number?” The gruff intonation was a familiar music, a dull thrum against the cacophony of the night. It wasn’t a question Amelia ever answered with digits. Her identity wasn’t a serial code, though sometimes it felt like it.
She looked at the man leaning against his car, his face obscured by the dim light. He was just another anonymous silhouette, a fleeting transaction in the sprawling, indifferent canvas of the city. “No number,” she said, her voice a low murmur, barely audible above the drizzle. “Just… me.”
He chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. “Yeah, well, ‘just me’ doesn’t pay the rent, does it? What are you asking, then? Let’s get to it.”
Amelia didn’t have a price list etched into her mind. Each encounter was a negotiation, a delicate dance choreographed by unspoken needs and the grim reality of survival. “Depends on what you’re looking for,” she said, taking a tentative step closer. The neon glow painted streaks of garish color across her face, highlighting the fatigue etched around her eyes.
The man finally stepped out of the shadows, his features sharper now, a hint of weariness mirroring her own. He wasn’t young, but he wasn’t ancient either. Just another man seeking something he couldn’t find elsewhere, or perhaps something he didn’t know he was looking for.
“Just… conversation, maybe?” he offered, the question laced with a surprising vulnerability. “A moment of not feeling so damn alone.”
Amelia paused. This was rare. Most wanted the physical, the transactional, the uncomplicated exchange. The “number” wasn’t just about the service; it was about reducing her to a commodity, a predictable unit of pleasure. But “conversation,” that was a different kind of currency.
“Conversation,” she repeated, a ghost of a smile touching her lips. It wasn’t the one she usually offered, the one that promised a fleeting escape. This one felt… real. “That can be arranged.” She didn’t need a number for that. She just needed a willingness to listen, and a willingness to be heard, even if only for a little while, in the damp, lonely night. The rain continued to fall, a steady rhythm that seemed to underscore the quiet offering of human connection, a service no number could ever truly quantify.
