Under the tree sits a small, thin, tiny, woman. Simply by how she dresses, sits, and holds herself, you can read her like the big neon yellow traffic sign on the road behind her.

The small faded beige spot on her tight pure white blouse is a clear marking of where the drunk man spilt his beer on her as he tried to reach the Tuesday afternoon buffet at “The Tiger Stripes Strip Joint.”

The tag on her shirt read Lauren, but the man could only manage to pronounce the “Laur” before stumbling into a new sentence.

“Hey Laur-! How ‘bout I take you in the back and make it rain. If you know what I mean.” The words slurred together as he tried to wink but got too confuse with the complex multitasking.

With that she walked him to the back of the room, through a door, and into one of the private lounges. She didn’t have a choice, because the Tiger policy is guaranteed satisfaction for every customer. That meant selling your soul to the joint and your body to anyone with rubber band banks in their pockets.

The dull essence of purple lipstick still lingers on her lips. The rash around her mouth isn’t chapped lips. The vertical pattern is that of the wash cloth she used to scrub herself raw in a hopeless effort to get rid of the shame. The same red, blotchy, scrub induced, rash stands out on every part of light brown skin she shows off. But she wears it with superiority, because if she doesn’t fake her pride and hide the disgrace, people will see her only for the infamy she carries with her. Only no matter how hard she tries to be strong, she still looks down in the puddle of tears and see a girl who can’t help herself.

The way she holds her legs in an unending hug isn’t a warning to leave her alone, rather a call for help.

If you listen closely you can hear her whispering to herself “Help…”

She is begging for help, because little do you know, the biggest choice in her life isn’t just about her anymore.