By: Megan Cramer
She lived in the old moldy green gabled House on Lady Street. She knew that some (the lofty snobby elite) called it the Festering Fleshpot Of Immorality. She was okay with that. Her sordid relations with the sunburnt sailors and sand-crusted mill workers required patience and empathy and a whole hell of a lot of post-coital scrubbing. But her work, to her, was the like work of the soldiers abroad. She did her time and expected no medal for it. Each night was an exercise of salty service—either of the rubbing of genitals or the rubbing of teary eyes. Salute.