and I stare out the window to shut down any expectations of further conversation.
Silence doesn’t bother me.
Quiet moments appreciating my city’s perfection is food for my soul. It’s an exact contrast to the environment I grew up in, and I pinch myself to make sure this isn’t a dream. I escaped trash-filled gutters and abandoned buildings for business districts and art galleries. The sidewalks are clean, the shopping is upscale, and the restaurants are all five-star eateries.
I’m four miles from the ocean, ten miles from a national park, and a million miles away from the life I left behind.
There’re times when that doesn’t seem far enough away. This is why when I feel the urge to ask my driver if he has a family or where he’s from, I swallow my words like a pill. Small talk almost always leads to heavier conversations, and I have no interest in getting personal with anyone. It’s a lonely existence, but my reputation with Inez and among my clients secures this stripper’s daughter a life that was never in my cards.
The tradeoff is worth it.
I’m a fleeting thought, a mirage to everyone except the men who pay for my undivided attention. In exchange for their loyalty, I promise to do my best not to be recognized or draw suspicion to our arrangement.
I won’t be the tramp looked down upon in public because I fuck for money.
I’d rather be invisible.
There’s nothing to lose when no one knows who I really am.
“You can stop here,” I say as we approach the four-story building where my first appointment of the day is. Sunlight gleams off the glass structure like the Emerald Castle in The Wizard of Oz, but I’m no damsel in distress looking for her way home.
“Are you sure, Miss, I can pull to the front,” my driver asks.
“Please, this is fine,” I say with a ring of finality in my voice.
Avoiding eye contact, I pass him a twenty-dollar bill and exit the vehicle. This will be the last ride he gives me, and in a week, he won’t remember if my hair was blonde or brunette. He’ll be unable to pick out which condo on Bradford Street is mine or where he dropped me off.
Today, I’m the most beautiful woman he’s ever set eyes on. He’ll think about the length of my legs and the soft scent of my perfume for hours. But without anything concrete to hold on to, without solid facts about me to grasp, as his memory of the day fades, so will I.
Spring in the Bay Area is crisp and blooming. The air smells like sea salt and the unfolding of brand-new leaves from trees lining the streets. Above the hum of traffic, birds chirp, and a vessel’s horn thunders as it arrives in port. Sun shines on the city today, and the sky is the bluest of blues.
My red-bottom heels click on the sidewalk and then on the tile floor of the building’s lobby. Elevator doors open as if on command, and I hurry inside before another passenger joins me. I rehearse Cara’s smile in my reflection on the elevator walls as I soar twelve flights up, gluing it in place when I come to a stop.
“Hi,” I say to the receptionist. “I’m here for my eleven-thirty appointment with Dr. Coston.”
“Your name?” the mousy girl asks. The tips of her ears burn pink, and she straightens her posture.
“Cara Smith,” I reply.
She spies on me while I retrieve my fake ID from my purse. She sizes me up and must decide I’m prettier than she is, diverting her attention back to her computer screen as I pass my proof of identification over. The receptionist sucks in her stomach and pushes a curl of dark hair away from her forehead. As far as she’s concerned, I’m another one of Dr. Coston’s psych patients following up on a recent evaluation. But a woman’s intuition is a tricky thing, and I intimidate her.
“Have a seat, Miss Smith. The doctor will be with you shortly,” she says, passing my ID back.
Four minutes later, I’m officially on the clock.
Michael Coston, a man in his mid-fifties, sits behind a massive mahogany bureau. He gives no indication that I’m anyone more than his next patient, greeting me with a generic smile as he stands from his chair.
A far cry from the drunk, sweaty men my mother used to entertain, Dr. Coston’s bulky in the right places, dressed impeccably, and his hair—that array of gray and white hair—is