She always stood by the traffic light at Allen hill hollering at ’em sweet men. She, a lady of the night. She would spend the night in their embrace, giving out all of her-her prowess, her charms and love. She would escort them back home to their threshold and made sure they was inside in the nagging sagging arms of their wives. She would begin the long walk home holding her snaring heart in an embrace.

Allen hill spoke of her in that revering way fans did of Cersei. One couldn’t love her, one couldn’t hate her. One just had to take all of her smoke and warmth and hoped to not be intoxicated. On some nights she pampered staggering men whose minds were filled with dark thoughts and tired words. On some nights she gave strength to failing men who were too effeminated to be men. On some nights she hugged back to life men who were unwilled to living. On some nights she gave out her essence to men whose libidos were too heightened for normal women. On other nights she restored flacid manhoods to turgidity.

Allen hill rose in power because of her. It’s splendour and thriving shares owed itself to her for she worked as she loved, this business of souling, this art of creating splurting fountains of ecstacy from the core of her womanhood.

She worked until her labias began sagging-yet eyes filled with undying love and ever lighted passion. The newspaper report confined itself to her last words, “Love’s owning all the hearts.”

At her funeral we are gathered, all dressed in blue. Tarcy loved blue. She said blue meant unyielding, free and wild. As skies and seas was blue, these depthless things-so was love. We watch as her body is hoisted on the pyre with all the flowers and candles she had received in her long life. Wood is lighted. It cackles. A flame sparkles, no sparks-then the entire criss-crossed sticks of wood are fed with the red hot thing. Her body burns fiercely, like she lived until she was a fine dust like the surreal particles of the universe. You should have seen her, Tarcy was beautiful.

I watched as everyone left the pyre site till it was left with the men she loved. Some old and crooked. Some young and robust. These men loved by the woman of the night who dared to do everything thing rejected beautifully-with pride like some ostrich.

Sometimes love are the strange arms wrapped around you in brothels. Sometimes love is feeling sweetly the hum of a stranger’s breath.  Sometimes love is sprinkling all of it sparingly like some sieve of rain. Sometimes love is dying to break hearts. Sometimes love is crying at the funeral of a beloved who  walked the night. Sometimes love is a night sky, starless yet bright with the faint streaks of daylight. Sometimes love is losing……….

You should have seen her, she was so beautiful.