Take a good look at me.
A sweet, girl-next-door type in a daring dress and sky-high stilettos struts with a runway walk toward a row of flip-down seats at the train station, weaving her way to the wall. It’s the darkest spot here.
She sits down like a princess on a throne, except her throne is a beat-up plastic chair. Then, she carefully rubs her aching ankles, feeling like the Little Mermaid from the fairy tale, all pain and no grace. She shifts to get comfy, tossing back her light brown hair that was perfectly styled this morning but now hangs in messy strands.
That girl? Yeah, that’s me.
I’m pulling off the carefree college student vibe pretty well—someone who partied a little too hard and is now heading to her parents’ cabin in the countryside.
Okay, so I made it to the station. Phase one of my escape plan is almost a success. Except my feet are rubbed raw and burning like hell. At least I didn’t lose Honey along the way.
But I’ve got no money for a ticket. No money for anything. They took my wallet. So what now? Am I supposed to walk the rest of the way? I can’t do that.
Suddenly, a gruff growl rumbles right by my ear.
I’m so startled I forget the pain and the fear. I jump up with a twist—figure skaters would be jealous of that move.
And there, in front of me, is a sleeping beauty. Looks like he was also hunting for the darkest corner, probably to crash. The hood of his sweatshirt is pulled down over his nose. And that wasn’t a growl—it was his snoring.
But peeking out of his jacket pocket? A wallet.
Oh.
It’s so tempting, and so disgusting at the same time. This feels like a matter of life and death.
Mine.
I slide closer to the temptation. The feeling of being a cornered animal pushes me toward this reckless move.
If I just take a little, maybe he won’t notice. A ticket costs next to nothing. He’s sleeping so soundly, and the stench of booze on him could light a torch.
Guess I’ve sunk low enough to rob drunks.
The wallet is big, thick, and clearly stuffed with more than loose change. It’s real leather, probably worth a pretty penny on its own. You shouldn’t tempt a desperate girl with something so fat and full.
Yeah, dirty jokes really help in a pinch.
My hands are shaking. Come on, hands, don’t wimp out. If you’re scared, don’t do it; if you’re doing it, don’t be scared. Got it?
You’d think earning money honestly would be easy—just play Honey for half an hour in front of passengers waiting to board. People are kind; they’d toss a few bucks for my fare.
Except then everyone would remember me.
And I need to stay quiet, like a mouse.
Buy a ticket to somewhere far, get off early, then grab another, and another. Then I can finally rest, kick off these damn heels that have rubbed my feet raw, and be myself again, even if just for an hour or two.
Is that too much to ask?
He won’t go broke. His clothes alone are worth more than what I made in a month playing on the streets in Poland.
Man, those were the days.
Ugh. No negativity.
They were, and they’ll come again.
Let this count as his charity, a way to clean up his karma, okay?
My karma’s already so messed up that a hundred bucks here or there won’t make a difference.
The ticket lady’s stepped away. This corner is pretty dark, and the row of seats in front of us blocks the view. No one’s in this rundown waiting area.
Because my train is the last one. All the normal passengers left an hour ago.
This is my shot at freedom.
Enough stalling.
Now or never.
Okaaaay.
Just tug at the edge a little… come on, it’s moving, almost there, just a bit more.
Please, don’t let anyone walk in. Some random idiot who can’t sleep in the middle of the night.
Focus, don’t get distracted by idiots, it’s working, come on, almost…
“And who do we have here, digging in pockets, huh?”
Ahhh! His hand clamps down like iron, squeezing tight, no way out. Was he pretending to sleep?
His voice isn’t drunk or groggy like someone just waking up.
I’m the one who can’t breathe.
Pure terror.
“I don’t know, let go of my hand, it hurts. It fell out of your pocket. I was just putting it back. Didn’t want to wake you. You were sleeping so peacefully…”
“Let go?”
“Yeah.”
“Didn’t want to wake me?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Alright. Good girl. Sorry for scaring you. Keep it. For being so considerate. And nice legs, by the way.”
“What do you mean?”
“How should I know how you manage to look so good? Is it the heels? They’re gorgeous, no doubt. But watch out—you’ll rub your feet raw, strain your ligaments, and when you finally take those heels off, you’ll have flat feet and calluses. Gross. Think about whether it’s worth it.”
Is he high or something? What’s with the obsession over my legs?
“Uh, so you’re just giving me your wallet? For free?”
“Yeah. I said so, didn’t I? Plus, I’m throwing in some solid advice about your feet. That’s worth a lot too. Your clients won’t tell you that. But I will. Because I’m generous. And experienced. I’ll tell you something else—all those little dresses, heels, lingerie? That’s for old, washed-up guys. Normal, healthy ones? They want to see you without all that. It’s just extra, believe it or not.”
“Oh. Uh. Yeah, I’m aware.”
Now he’s the one who looks shocked, eyebrows practically disappearing into his hairline. His hair’s a mess, but the cut’s high-end. You don’t get that at a cheap barber. It falls almost over his eyes, not like a drunk bum, but like an actor playing a millionaire from the slums.
Wait, what if this is a prank? Are they filming me with a hidden camera, and everyone’s watching? I don’t care about everyone else, but if *they* see this, I’m done for.
I’ve got to keep my cool.
Swagger’s worth more than cash. If I want to be an artist, not some creep’s doormat, I’ve got to practice.
So I exhale and dive in headfirst, no plan, no path.
“But thanks anyway. You’re really giving it to me? You’re not gonna call the cops or a film crew the second I believe you and get up to buy a ticket?”
“I won’t say a word to anyone. Even under torture, I won’t admit that was ever in my pocket. Take it, why are you hesitating? Shy girl. Funny.”
“Honestly, I just need a hundred bucks. For a ticket. Maybe two hundred, to grab some snacks for the road. Or no, forget the snacks. Thanks. You’re probably just a little drunk right now. You’ll regret this in the morning.”
He gives me a hard look. Two slits for eyes, like he’s aiming to find my weak spot and take me down. Point-blank.
Why am I dragging this out? There’s nothing to find. I’m one big weak spot.
Go ahead, shoot. I’ve got nothing to lose.
I slowly open the wallet. Oh no.
“There’s no local cash in here,” I say, my voice way more shaky than I can afford to let it be. It’s trembling.
He peers into the wallet too.
“So what? You got a problem with foreign money, little bird?”
“No. It’s just that they won’t sell me a ticket for a hundred euros. Although…”
“Exactly. You’re thinking right. Go ask. They’ll keep the change and sell you one. Well, what are you waiting for?”
Waiting for what? She’ll remember me. I’m the only girl in this whole waiting area. And he’s the only guy. Only someone with Alzheimer’s would forget us.
And if I pay thirty times more for a ticket, she’ll remember every single detail.
Ugh. It’s always like this—when luck’s on your side for too long, it’s guaranteed to turn on you hard.
Tears are creeping up, way too close. I want to deck this metrosexual jerk. But for what? For messing with an idiot who can’t even pickpocket properly and keeps chatting instead of running?
He’s already got me memorized.
So it doesn’t matter. I’ve got to run. Now.
Last seat by the wall, and these stupid heels. When luck’s not on your side, it’s a full-blown disaster package.
But if I can hop over the row of seats in front, the rest of the way is clear.