Page 6 of The Senator: Raphael

“God, how can they charge five hundred dollars for a bra that doesn’t even cover your tits?” she asks, showing me a tiny piece of clothing that is definitely not a bra. It’s three strips of black fabric sewn in a triangle shape where your boobs basically hang out. Shouldn’t this be sold in a sex shop? It’s part of the “daring collection”— the only daring thing about it is the price tag. How did they even find a place to put the tag?

I chuckle and check out the bustier in front of me. It’s black lace with feathers on the bra cup. It’s elegant and covers more than that thing Lola showed me. “I don’t know, this one is twelve hundred dollars.” I show her the garment and she seems to appreciate it. I think we have a winner.

“At least your boobs are covered! Not that it would stay on for long if I wore it,” she giggles.

I admire how casual she is about the side gig of our job. I’m not brave enough for something like that. She’s one of the girls who offers extra services to clients in exchange for a higher tip or a particularly expensive present. Not exactly a prostitute, but she can make some extra cash sleeping with guys willing to pay her. Our boss knows about it, and he closes one eye to keep his clients satisfied. That and other things like the drugs consumed not so subtly at the tables.

I was a bit skeptical in the beginning about spending the night with virtual strangers, but working there I discovered they’re not regular “Johns,” they’re well-known public figures and we definitely know their names. Men so out of our league we don’t stand a chance of even breathing the same air outside that place. If only their girlfriends and wives knew where they were during the day, they wouldn’t be smiling so brightly at the cameras. Or maybe they know and don’t care; it’s not my place to judge.

“Are you coming for lunch?” Lola asks after we pay way too much for our lingerie. Her blond waves shine in the California sun as we walk out of the shop.

“Not today, I have to go home and answer some emails before my shift tonight.”

She pouts. “You’re always studying and working on papers. When will you start enjoying your life?”

I stopped doing that eight years ago, when I made a decision that completely changed my life. I knew it was the right thing to do, but it doesn’t make my life suck less now.

“I’m enjoying my life plenty!” I lie.

I’d like to go out, travel, see places, have a job I love, and a family, but I’m stuck in this limbo where I can’t go back to my past and I don’t have a future. I’m just getting by, day in and day out, without a purpose or goal. Surviving on autopilot. And I’m okay with that.

“No, you’re living like a ninety-year-old lady in sexy lingerie,” she points out.

“God, that is the worst thing my mind could conjure. Thank you for searing my brain with the image of an old lady in a sexy outfit!” I jokingly push her as she laughs.

“So, see you at home?” She kisses me on the cheek.

“Yes. Are we carpooling tonight?” We normally use her car when we work on the same night.

“Not this time. I have breakfast with a cute doctor tomorrow morning.” She winks at me, and I feel my heart squeeze.

She’s a nightclub bartender with a side gig of paid sex, and she somehow manages to have a perfectly balanced life—with relationships and everything in between. I can’t even think of being with someone for more than a hookup.

“I want every detail when you come back,” I say before opening the door of my Uber.

“Do you want a video? I can record our performance.” She laughs winking at me.

“Please, don’t. I don’t need that kind of detail.” I wave at her as I close my door.

I watch her move toward the restaurant with a smile on her face. She’s happy and I envy her a bit. I wish I could be that carefree.

I walk into our shared apartment and head straight for my room to change into a pair of shorts and a tank top, grabbing my computer from my desk. I sit outside on the deck chair in our tiny garden and check my email. I don’t have many, mostly spam or newsletters I subscribed to, but no real human interaction.

The only genuine thread of email I exchange is with a New York University professor, Hans Gruber, who helps me out by sending me material for different courses I want to take. He teaches Criminal Law, something I was interested in pursuing in my previous life. A dream I can’t stay away from, even if I know I’ll never follow that career. Still, it’s fun to have something to dedicate my time to without the pressure of tests, finals, or failing courses.

I open Gruber’s email and a lump forms in my throat.

Dear Ms. Argent,

I had the pleasure of reading your last assignment this weekend and personally graded it. I wish I had more students with your passion, dedication, and sensitive intelligence. Attached you can find the paper with my grade and some notes in the margins.

I know we already discussed this topic, but I always hope you’ll reconsider your decision not to pursue a college career. We can work together to find a solution for your peculiar situation. It’s a shame that a curious mind and a kind heart like yours can’t help other people in obtaining justice.

I wish you my best,

Professor Hans Gruber.

I reread the email three times before my heart finally slows down. This is one of the moments when my heart says,Fuck it, let’s do this!and I almost believe that another future is possible for me. But then I remember it’s not just my life on the line, and the dread sinking in my stomach makes me want to scream.

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