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I’m watchin’ her, right, from me fancy carriage, sippin’ wine, judgin’. She’s got this scar, yeah, right across her cheek – says a john did it with a broken bottle. “He’s dead now,” she brags, all proud. Reminds me of Mia again, that line, “I’m hard as nails.” Pfft, this prossie ain’t hard, she’s desperate. Gets me ragin’, tho – why’s she gotta live like this? World’s a cesspit, innit? Men just takin’, takin’, takin’. Makes me wanna burn it all down, “I choose violence,” you get me?

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Then, outta nowhere, it starts pouring. I mean, like, monsoon-level rain. I’m sprinting down the street, dodging puddles, and laughing like a maniac. I duck into a shop on the corner of the village. It’s cozy, and the smell of fresh bread hits me. I grab a pastry, and the lady behind the counter gives me a wink. I’m thinking, “Maybe I should move here for good.”

Death Notice of Teresa Canavan (née Thornton) (Castleknock, Dublin)