Pretty As a Picture


“Can I take your picture?” he asked, a cigarette sticking to his lip through the words.  The girl seated on the step didn’t respond. She was skinny, he noted with the clinical eye of a professional photographer. He wasn’t trained to see beauty, but instead flaws. He noted the broken doll look of long legs clad in torn nylons,  legs too long and too skinny  to be really good looking. She held herself awkwardly, the slender stretch of one arm around her knee and the other resting beside her seemed to disappear into the infinity of exposed flesh. Bruises were nestled into the crook of both arms. She must be new to this, he mused, to not be hiding the track marks on her feet or anywhere else that wasn’t at first sight. “Miss,” he said, almost choking on the word. As if this specimen of the sludge of humanity qualified as a miss. “You’re pretty, can I take your picture?”

She looked up, startled at his words. Now he had the chance to see the bruise that marked her face, obviously from a fist. Makeup was caked over the top, but she didn’t have the delicate hand or eye to apply it in any workable fashion.  Her hair was clean, though a very bad dye job had the bottom an unnatural platinum with black roots grown out to 4 inches at least and her body was narrow for lack of meals, collar bones sticking out above the flimsy tank top like handles. She had no bra on, but not enough breasts to make that matter really.  She was already miles of bad road, and he was certain she wasn’t even old enough to buy a smoke yet.

“Miss,” he said in a more demanding tone, “Can I take your picture? I’ll give you as much as you charge for a handjob.”

She blinked, the street light obscuring eyes the color of emeralds. She smiled, the garish red lipstick parting to show front teeth stained with the same color. She needed braces. She needed a bath. She probably needed the money for whatever asshole beat the shit out of her or for more drugs to shove into her veins.

“You really think I’m pretty?” she asked. Her voice surprised him. It was low and melodic, bringing to mind images of those old black and white movies with the woman in the tight dress that spelled trouble. He wondered for a moment if she’d ever had a chance to see those movies. Not now, surely.

“Sure, whatever. Can I take your picture?” he flicked ten bucks down to glass littered ground by the too-large sneakers she wore. She picked it up and looked at him. “You really think I’m pretty?”

He sighed. Obviously she was as smart as she was pretty. Her IQ matched her shoe size. She wasn’t playing with a full deck. More phrases danced through his mind as he forced a smile. “Yeah.”

She returned the smile and he flashed the picture of her sitting there, the money still in one hand. “No one calls me pretty… not anymore. Jack used to but…” her voice faded, or he ignored it, did it really matter in the end? He snapped a picture. This time she had the look he was going for. Desperation, sadness, the sort of things a hooker should look like.

“Do you really think I’m pretty?” she called out, tears were dragging the mascara down her cheeks. She rubbed at it with the back of her hand, smearing it across her skin.  He didn’t answer. He walked away, leaving her already forgotten, already searching for the next picture that would scream anguish enough to propel him to fame



* Mari Binx
is a 23 year old who began telling stories the moment she could speak,
and writing them down as soon as stubby hands could hold oversize
pencils. Her blog is at http://harmoniousexpressions.blogspot.com/