The years hadn't been kind. They hadn't been harsh either. Standing under the orange glow of the streetlight, she could've been anywhere between fifteen and twenty-five, innocence and experience fighting a strange war on her features so you thought of her as a child until you noticed the harsh set of her mouth, and the dead stare of her eyes. This was her calling card, she knew. She could be anything to anybody. For an extra ten bucks, she would even call you "daddy".

This was her job. No-one forced her to stand out here night, after night in a skirt that left little to the imagination and a top that took that little and made it nothing. Choices. She'd made hers. Swaart Street was one of them.

On quiet night like these, she could just be. Let her mind wander to a time when she'd dreamed of marriage and 2.5 children, a career, and arms that held her in the dark until dawn. She'd been touched. Her body was covered in fingerprints, for there was no place that hands had not been. All of them touched her, none of them held her. It was for this simple pleasure she yearned the most.

At the sound of sirens, she looks around. Cops. She had to watch out for the police. Years on these streets had taught her to be wary of those that had vowed to serve and protect. They either handcuffed you and threw you in a cell for the night, or they parked in a dark alley. That was worse.

A car approaches in the distance. A black Landrover. Tinted windows demark status. Upper middle class. Tired wife. Teenage children. The driver stops and rolls down the window. In a move that is both cliched and elegant, she leans down; forearms resting on the space previosly closed off by glass, giving him an even better view of her cleavage.

"Hey sugar, need some company tonight?"

Excellent write......

Thank you

welcome...

Could this be an introduction to a longer piece, a book...?