text: I hated that ancient pair of shoes. Supporting a wife and child meant I had to make them last. The backs had fallen apart and the metal cut into my heels with every goddamn step I took. They had been digging the same holes into my feet all week but, as I walked to my car after a long day of work, it was especially intolerable. Maybe that was why I was so short with that girl when she approached me. My eyes were on the ground as I walked through the outdoor parking lot. I couldn't wait to be home. I took solace in the fact that my wife and daughter would be asleep. I could sneak in and clean the cut on my forehead and stop the bleeding from my knuckles before they saw me. Behind me, I heard someone call out, "Hey, Mister." Knowing my city, the odds were high that anybody approaching me in a parking lot at night was about to stab me and take my wallet. I snapped to attention, swiveling my head around and balling my hands into fists. I flinched in pain as I remembered my hurt knuckles. To my relief, there was only a hooker behind me. She held her hands together and shook as if she was cold. But I knew why she was actually shaking. "No thanks," I said as I turned and started to walk back to my car. "Actually, I, uh, I was wondering if you were, you know, carrying," she said, teetering up behind me on her high heels. "No." "Oh. Well, you know, I'm really in need of a fix, Mister." "Sorry to hear that," I lied. "Well... can I at least suck your dick, Mister? I need some money." "Don't say that," I said without turning around. "Who are you, my dad?" "No, just don't say what service you're offering. If I were a cop I'd be able to arrest you. Just tell guys that you want to party." "Oh. Sorry, Sir." Her accent was gone but manners like those didn't come from the city. She still had her Southern charm. "Well, actually, mister, maybe you could give me a ride." "No." "Oh, please. It's only a few blocks. I really need a fix. Really bad." "I have to get home," I said as I spotted my car. Justa few more steps in those goddamn awful shoes. "It's a dangerous walk, Mister. Please, Mister. Please." "It's even more dangerous to get in a car with a stranger, you dumb bitch!" I snapped as I turned to face her. "You don't know a goddamn thing about me but you're still trying to climb into a car with me!" "You have a kind face, Mister," she said meekly. I turned to walk to my car, laughing. "Really? You think so? Well you're a shitty judge of character." I was infuriated when I could still hear her steps behind me. As I reached my car, I faced her again. She was sobbing. Underneath the running makeup I saw her face for the first time. Her lifestyle made her age twice as fast, but I could see her youthful eyes glistening with tears. She couldn't have been out of her early-twenties. Her eyes reminded me of my daughter's. That unsettled me. "Can you please take me home, Sir?" she sobbed. "The bus station isn't far from here. I just wanna go home to my daddy. I never wanna see this city again." "You have a father and a home?" I asked in disbelief. "Then why the hell did you leave them for this shithole of a city?" "Please, Mister. Don't make me walk over there at this time of night. The bus station is just a few blocks away." The bus station was on the other side of town and I had no interest in staying out any later than I had to. "Can't you see that I have blood pouring out of my head and my knuckles! I'm a violent person! I make a living through violence, for God's sake! And you're trying to jump into a car with me because you think I have a kind face? I hope my daughter grows up to be a better judge of character than you." I froze when I realized the implications of what I had just said. I was a violent man. The kind that I wouldn't want my daughter anywhere near. I was hypnotized by my realization when I felt the girl put her hand on my shoulder. I did not know how to respond to affection. So I responded with violence. I backhanded her across the face. I swore as I remembered my injured knuckle and held my hand to fight the pain. The hooker backpedaled, holding her face. She looked back to me one last time and yelled, "That's why! That's why I left my father for this shithole of a city!" Then she stormed off into the darkness. At last, I sat in my car. I didn't start the engine, though. I looked at myself in the rear-view mirror. I studied myself, trying to see why anybody would think I had a kind face. To this day, I still can't see what that hooker saw in my face. Maybe it was because I saw what became of that girl from the South. Maybe it was because of the violence in my job. Maybe it was because I wanted to get a new pair of fucking shoes. Whatever the reason, I didn't go home that night. I never saw my daughter again.