It’s her term for the four mothers: it has rolled into my self-talk as well. We both smile and she walks out. I don’t bother saying goodbye becaus... we’ll meet up after dinner for more cards – what else is there to do? Flick, crack, whoosh. My lighter still has a few days in it. I only have four smokes left, but that’s okay. I make homemades too. The leeches wander in to the common room, shouting. ‘It ain’t right. That shit is not right.’ Heather, I think. The loudest, the ringleader. ‘I know!. In my street whore outfit, including wig, I walk through Times Square to the 42nd Street subway station where I board the C Train and ride all the way to the Bronx and back. Brad and Jefferson board as well and sit at the far end of the car. As instructed I take a seat facing toward the center, where everyone can see up or, if standing, down my skimpy dress. There is a small calculated risk that someone I know professionally might enter the car, but I don’t care. Perhaps I am beginning to want. More

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