endless roads

“I am a hooker,” she said, whilst sipping on her tea. She said it with so much ease; not a blink of an eye, or any evident facial expression, putting the cup of tea aside on the carpeted floor of her council house, and lighting a cigarette, giving me enough time to look around the room. It was messy, clothes spread around the floor, her bra spread over her bed. It did seem she has a good cup size, and some very excellent taste in lingerie.
It was a typical London evening, where like the other two “Ws”, work and women, the weather is highly non-dependable. You never know when it might change for the worse. So, I was coming back from a friends place, waiting for the night bus to take me back to my hotel, there she was dressed in black stalking, engrossed in her ipod. She obviously had attracted my attention. Her straight silky black hair, her succulent lips, and her relaxed demeanor. “Hey, don’t you just hate these night buses, but then again don’t you just love London”. She smiled back
50 minutes, a nice conversation and many smiles later, I was sitting in her lounge. She seemed to have transcended into an aggressive mood, as if having a withdrawal of sorts. Apparently she was a coke addict, and waiting for her friend to bring over her stash. The door bell rang, and I let her friend in. Whilst her friend attended to the girl’s addiction, I roamed around her apartment. The adjacent room was laden with books all around, 100s of them on subjects varying from politics to philosophy, I saw myself quite confused.
What followed was nothing short of life changing. I realized that had that woman at the bus stop told me, she was a hooker, I may not have taken the journey with her to her apartment. I did however, and the conversations that followed were one of the best I have had with anyone, making me shed one of my biggest flaws, judging the book by its cover. Never again would I want to do that, for London changed that over a simple encounter with a not so simple damsel.