I didn’t take his money. I’m still good. I wanted to, but I shook my head no when he asked. My eyes travelled along the rough terrain of his hairy knuckles and his burnt blini back of hand to his gold-plated cufflinks and dark blue sleeves. Sometimes, I ponder selling myself. It was so humid that night. Was he sweating? I can’t remember. His eyes were glutted with a lust that scared me and made me look down to his belly because my sight is controlled like that and I saw a fleshy graveyard haunted by ghosts of palinka and salted meats. The automaton was his wife, an aged piţipoanca: lumpy bleach blonde plastic bottle tan with nipples pointed south. Her blue eyes saw through me. It’s too hot for a sweater.