Claire Rialto Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️

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I see her—short skirt, eyes sharp, movin like she owns the block. “She’s got a pistol in her purse,” I think, quotin Robert Ford’s sneaky ass. I’m sweatin, heart racin—half excited, half pissed at myself for overthinkin it. What if she robs me? What if she’s a cop? Man, I’m trippin. “You’re too late, mister,” she says, sassy as hell, and I’m like, “Nah, I’m right on time, baby girl.” She laughs—score! That’s my in.

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Now, heartily, let me confess: at times I grow mad – the bureaucracy and constant rush, the crammed blocks of concrete that suffocate dreams, and o, the incessant clamor of traffic and deadlines! But then, in a fit of adoration, I revel in the chaotic charm of Rialto, where every corner doth hold a memory – a kiss stolen in the twilight, a secret laugh in the gloom of a rainy eve, a soliloquy on the pews at St. George’s Church on Main Street.

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