Dating The Poor

“What are you trying to find here,” she asked. “I mean: how did you end up in Bucharest?”

“Nothing much,” I replied to her first question. (She looked great – in some mysterious way. Better than on the pictures.) “Guess I am a bohemian. If I like it here I will stay.” (Until I have to go.) “To answer your second question: life is all about people.” (I have friends here.)

“There’s something you need to know,” she said. “I’m an escort girl.”

(Her out of the blue confession put a smile on my face.)

“Interesting. At least you don’t work in a bank. So basically you are using Tinder as a marketing tool. How nice.”

“Sometimes, yes.”

“Fascinating. Almost wondrous. Anyways, I don’t judge. People judge me.”

(48 seconds of silence while I looked into her eyes.)

“So, I said,” (Much against my own advice. An unwritten rule says that whoever talks first, loses.) “My question is whether you are working today or having some time off?”

“That depends entirely on you.”

(Sweet red smile.)

“Just out of curiosity…” (Let’s throw in a buying question.) “What are your prices?” (Let’s get her going.)

“Starting from 100 euro. Depends on the service.”

“Maybe I am poor,” I said.

“Maybe you are,” she replied.

“Let’s get some food. I am starving.”

She paid the bill and I took the change because the service sucked.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

(I lit a cigarette.)

“I don’t see the point of tipping when the service sucks. It doesn’t make any sense. Anyway, let’s go. By the way, there is something you should know : I am some kind of weirdo who’s into art. After dinner we go to my place and get some work done. Don’t worry: I want you with your clothes on. For the pictures that is.”

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