Now, she had bleached hair -- almost white (like that woman with the stud through her nose). And although she commanded a seemingly exorbitant rate, she was far too good to be a professional -- especially here, in this ill-equipped, but appropriately discrete, establishment twenty-five minutes south of downtown. Her interest was unmistakably personal, with the money somehow failing to make an impression. So, while I endeavored to play the role of another distant, pathetically detached customer using her as an elaborate prop in my personalized psychosexual drama, I became aware that she seemed overly involved in the transpiring scenario, and (worse yet) had the decided option of claiming it at any moment for her own. That frightened me. Because (as we had discovered through a costly series of unfortunate mistakes) what she lacked in imagination, she tended to over-compensate for with sheer nerve. And -- particularly on this cold, rainy morning -- I did not have time for any weird surprises, even if it meant my money being returned. So, when the whole thing was over, and she retracted into that guise of a distant, detached professional, I gave her a little more money -- just to be safe. And I realized that our love was but a disturbing memory.