There’s often two hookers at the end of my street, old Emily and fat Anna, but the other night there were three. I had no idea who the new girl was; Em mentioned they hadn’t been introduced, but went on to speculate that she’d soon suck their regulars dry - and presumably knew little English.

Now, I was dressed up to the nines with my waistcoat and collar turned up, so I didn’t really feel like street-talking, but there was something about this girl which intrigued me - something different: she looked almost intelligent (not the kind to tread spattered pavements without a knife in her pocket anyway), and dressed pretty sharp. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t exactly want to see her red hair engulfing my pillow (I’ve got my own girl), but that didn’t stop me from wanting to know her.

I remember how she leant against that Irish Bank, and when I crossed to her corner she greeted me with a puff of cigarette smoke and a delicate “Hello”, (in what I’d like to describe as a ‘girls boarding-school’ kind of accent). She gestured to the wall next to her and drew out a silver hip-flask emblazoned with a phoenix. “Come, share this with me” she cooed, unscrewing the cap. I guessed my being there would put off potential punters, but before I could voice my concerns she laughed “Ah, fuck the punters” and nodded towards the girls, taking a drag. I took a space on the wall beside her and she handed me the flask.

She asked why I was dressed like a twat. I told her I wrote poetry. “Ah, that explains it”, she smirked. I took a swig from the flask, coughed, and handed it back to her. It was stronger than I expected, but the more we indulged in that fiery liquid, the more we talked – and not of trivial matters: we voiced opinions on artistic truth and discussed the unsettling saturation of celebrity culture.  I was surprised but invigorated, to say the least.

Her cigarette slowly fizzled out, but as soon as she realised she crushed the filter beneath her right stiletto, pulled out another and flicked open a Zippo. The shadows instantly disappeared from her face and I saw her eyes, I mean really saw her eyes, and through those thick, green-speckled windows, I could see nothing - but pain.

“You working, Pandora?”  A dark Chevrolet had pulled to a stop in front of us.  “Of course, sugar, just give me a second”, she replied, kissing me on the cheek and walking over to the passenger door. I made it clear that I still held the flask, but she just smiled.  “Fill it with ink”, she said.

The shadows of the Chevy engulfed her body but her eyes still found mine, and somewhere behind the car windows, within captured clouds of cannabis-cologne, I caught one last glimmer - of hope.